


so, this secret side of you (doesn't make me love you any less)

by coffeiine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, F/M, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, a wild oberyn appears, and a wild stannis, and nobody knows but jaime, angry jaime but also 'let's not break up I love you' jaime, basically brienne writes historicals, because jaime gets drunk a lot and needs people to talk to, brienne was writing a book inspired by the lannisters, but has a secret identity as a writer of bitchy novels about the families, but she gets hacked and the book is leaked, cue drama, first fanfic in literal years I have zero idea what I'm doing, guilty brienne trying to be honorable as always, the secret writer brienne AU nobody asked for, then fell for our boy and shelved it, writer brienne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 13:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20836145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeiine/pseuds/coffeiine
Summary: There's a storm outside, and a relationship collapsing inside.Or: Jaime loves being the only person who knows his badass girlfriend Brienne is secretly Duncan Tall, author of witty novels filled with barely-disguised references to upper-class Westeros. That is, until a new Duncan Tall manuscript is leaked, and it turns out to be about his family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *waves*  
Hello, new fandom? I guess I just wrote my first piece of fanfic in about seven years, so, yay? *shivers in fear*
> 
> 1/ I saw the prompts for JB week and went all "have to give this a go!!!" even though this wasn't planned AT ALL and I'm terrified of writing in this fandom that has some of the best fic I've ever had the pleasure to read. (Seriously, you're all so talented.)
> 
> 2/ I haven't written anything that isn't original fic in literal years so at this point I'm not sure I still know how to write characters that aren't my own. So er, I hope this is alright. 
> 
> 3/ English is my second language and this isn't beta'ed because well, not having written fanfic in so damn long, I no longer have a beta and this was very last-minute. So apologies for any typos and mistakes!
> 
> 4/ Obviously I don't own anything. 
> 
> 5/ Originally Jaime was the secret writer and Brienne was the ‘betrayed’ one but then I started writing and it became the other way around. I figured I liked the idea of a modern-day Brienne who would write bitchy stories while feeling guilty about it because it’s not a very honorable thing to do. My headcanon for this is that she’s an heiress and reluctant socialite who snapped after a public humiliation and a bet too many and decided to expose the arseholes that made her life a living hell. When she met Jaime he was pretty infuriating so she figured using him as source material for her book wouldn’t be too bad. Then of course, things changed.
> 
> tl;dr Brienne might seem ooc in this but I might write more to explain where she’s coming from, and to find out how these two resolve their issues.
> 
> Written for the prompt "freaky weather" though I'm afraid I didn't use it that much, oops.

Outside, the storm was raging. Inside, they were about five minutes away from breaking up. His signed copy of _Stormborn_, the damned fucking historical bestseller that his girlfriend wrote, was still mocking him from the spot on the floor, near the stairs, where it had landed after Jaime had thrown it across the room in a fit of rage.

The book-throwing (he wasn't proud of it) happened earlier, before Brienne got there. She showed up eventually, after he left her yet another message daring her to come and explain herself. Her knock on his front door had been too soft and he knew then she had come to yield and not fight back. He should have made it clearer, that he wanted to fight and definitely not _break up_. Because apparently, she seemed to believe otherwise, and once Brienne believed in something, there was no changing her mind.

When he opened the door and looked up at her face, her eyes were hidden behind wet strands of straw-blonde hair. She was out of breath even though she'd driven to his place and not run (he loved it when she showed up after a run, flushed and sweaty). Her lips were parted, her shoulders so tense it had to be painful. It hurt to see her like this, and know he was the cause of it.

He stepped aside to let her in, both hands in his jean pockets and only one of them able to feel the fabric, and he wondered at his own ability to pretend he didn't see the end coming. He'd ignored all the signs, even after she had gone back to her silent and sullen ways for the past couple of days – waiting for him to call, not smiling unless he'd smiled first and she'd double-checked to make sure it was one-hundred per cent genuine. He told himself she was simply anxious because editing her latest book was a daunting task. She’d shown him the draft and he’d given her a few notes about her descriptions of swordfights – not many, since he always liked her fighting scenes, they were the reason he started buying her books after all. (That, and the understated romance, not that he’d have admitted it then.) Ah, if he'd only known she was hiding from him because the guilt of being the person responsible for the latest scandal involving dirty Lannister family secrets was too much for her to handle.

*

Over the last fifteen minutes, she had paced all around his living room, pretended to be fascinated by his kitchen sink as she poured herself a glass of water, played with the shoulder-length hair she insisted she should cut because it didn't suit her, but kept as it was because he said he liked it and sometimes the glint in her blue eyes gave him hope that perhaps, perhaps she would soon believe him when he complimented her.

And while she was doing all those things, she didn't once meet his eye.

Now, she was sitting too close to the edge of his couch, a monstrosity covered in deep red velvet, and he was terrified of going to her because what if the sound of his footsteps was what finally woke her from whatever trance she was under that miraculously stretched this moment of 'just before'. He knew that once she started talking it would be the end. It shouldn’t have to be that way, but he knew Brienne. She’d done something wrong, so she was going to _do the right thing_ and abandon him.

Funny, how he was the one who started the fight and now he was the one who felt sick because it was going to have consequences. Of course.

Outside, thunder growled and inside, he drew in a sharp breath.

Inside. _Don't go away inside, not now._

His reaction to the storm made her look up at him, at last. In her eyes, no unshed tears, but her lip wobbled and the flush that started in her cheeks was quickly spreading all over her face. On any other day, he would have called it adorable to her face just to rile her up, but this was no normal day.

Her eyes said sorry, her frown showed anguish and her mouth was twisted in resignation.

He couldn't take it anymore.

'Seven's sake, wench, say something, put us both out of our misery,' he said, trying to fake some of the old cruel bite she’d written about without a second thought.

'Or write it down, if you must, I'll wait,' he added, knowing the blow would land, and it did.

She looked as though he'd slapped her. Then her thick lips formed a sad little smile ("Not good enough, wench," he wanted to say, "that mouth can do better") and he knew she was thinking of all the letters she wrote him, of the morning post-it notes on the fridge or the lipstick on his bathroom mirror when she was feeling daring. And he loved her for not always being able to voice her feelings but finding a way to tell him anyway.

It worked for them. Whereas in spoken conversation he was the flourish and wit to her monosyllabic responses, when it came to the written word, he did not possess her talent, or his brother's. (He kept writing she had sapphire blue eyes, like that wasn't the most stupidly obvious thing to say. "Brienne, from the Sapphire isle, with the sapphire eyes." Why couldn't he find a metaphor worthy of her, like the ones from her books? He knew she'd find the perfect one for him if she ever decided to write about hi- oh wait, she did. And forgot to mention it.)

In comparison, Jaime's scarce texts and notes were blunt and to the point, often bordering on ridiculous, although he prided himself in having never sent a lover he'd cheated on a text that said "I love you. I love you. I love you" and expected it to be enough. Brienne had shown him even the stupidest Lannister deserved better than that.

Brienne still wasn't moving, or talking, or moving to grab a pen as he’d suggested, and Jaime decided enough was enough.

'Say something, please.'

'I don't know what to say.'

He chuckled, disbelieving. 'You don't know? How about "I can explain, Jaime" and "It's all a terrible mistake, Jaime" and "It's not how it looks, Jaime."'

'I can't say any of those things,' she said, broken, her melodic voice like a smooth wave cut short, crashing on the shore. 'It is exactly how it looks, I'm afraid. I just didn't think you'd ever have to know.'

'Know what?’ he snapped. ‘That you wrote it? That the juicy novel with barely-disguised Lannisters in it was written by the same person who's been exposing upper-class Westeros for years? Please! Or was it the reason why you didn't want me to know it was you in the first place? That Brienne Tarth, the author of classy historical novels, was also Duncan Tall, "the quill that has claws", the provider of dirty secrets for the masses! Oh but I remember how embarrassed you were when I found out. I thought it was touching really, that perhaps perfect Brienne had a dirty side too. But maybe you just liked it better when everyone thought it was me, or that creep Baelish, or anybody else.'

His brother Tyrion, the university professor, had also been a suspect for a while, until he laughed it off and solemnly declared that if he was writing something as _deliciously twisted_ as the Duncan Tall books, he'd be owning it. Of course, being Tyrion, everyone believed him. It was harder for Jaime to deny it, especially after people got it into their stupid heads that of course the sarcastic and broken Lannister heir, estranged from his family, had to be behind this. After a while, he stopped denying it altogether. It was flattering really, for people to assume he could write that well, and that fast. Nobody knew it took him over a month to finish _reading_ any book. His father had made sure no-one ever found out about his dyslexia, going as far as to dismiss tutors and taking it upon himself to torture his oldest son with never-ending reading sessions until Jaime was good enough to fool most people. Because that was the goal, to fool people. Everything else didn't really matter. And then he met Brienne, and for a while he made a fool of himself by implying he _was_ Duncan Tall, to unnerve and maybe impress her a little bit. Clearly, she was the wrong person to try that move on, but he couldn't know that, could he?

Her voice brought him back to the terrible present.

‘Jaime, no, that’s not what I meant!’

‘Then what the hell did you mean?’

‘I was hacked,' she admitted, in a small voice and he could almost see her as she found out, banging her head against the table and repeating 'stupid, stupid' like a mantra. He should have been there to comfort her.

'The manuscript got stolen,' she continued. 'I don’t know how they did it, or _who_ did it! That book was never going to see the light of day Jaime, I swear.’

Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her, and how could he not? He’d assumed it was a hack anyway, since the manuscript that was leaked was in rough form. Duncan Tall’s publisher had most links taken down within hours, but the damage was done. Screenshots, etc. This time, Duncan Tall (it had to be him, the style and themes were so similar to that of his other works) had penned a gripping thriller about a rich dysfunctional family that was just different enough from his that his father couldn’t sue. But the characters were too easy to recognise, at least for him. And some of the things he read, before he closed the tab and threw his copy of Stormborn across the room, he couldn’t quite forgive. She’d written him as complicit of the abuse his little brother had been a victim of, as the instigator of a twisted relationship between brother and sister. She’d given him some of the cruelty he’d shown her when they first met and he'd wanted to throw her out of her comfort zone. But that was before. Did she still think so little of him? His insides twisted at the thought.

‘When did you write it?’

She was making a conscious effort to look him in the eye, he could tell. ‘After we met. _Before_ you lost your hand.’

He nodded. So she did change her mind about him after all, it wasn’t all a lie. Not that he’d ever accuse Brienne of being a liar.

‘Okay,’ he said.

‘O…okay?’

‘Yeah, okay. I believe you. You started to write a hilarious but devastating story using my family as inspiration, but things between us started to change and you felt guilty, so you decided to shelve it.’

She breathed in relief. ‘Yes, exactly. I’m sorry, Jaime.’

‘So why did you finish it then?’

‘What?’ she breathed.

‘The book. If you felt guilty, why did you finish it? Because you finished it _after_, didn’t you? Those thinly veiled allusions to the truth about Aerys couldn’t have been written when you still believed I was despicable enough for you to _use my life_ like that! Because back then, you just didn't know!’

‘I thought… I thought it didn’t matter if I finished that first draft, since I’d already decided no-one would ever read it! I had to finish it because I’d written you all wrong. You were mean and hollow and I couldn’t let it stay that way, not after I _knew._ It was my way of…’

‘Of what?’ he asked, strangled. He could feel all his energy leave his body, drop after drop, crashing down on the floor like the heavy raindrops on his porch. She didn’t answer immediately but he could swear her eyes had never shone brighter than right now, in the dimly-lit room. It was sundown already, he didn’t realise. He moved to turn on the light, but her words stopped him, freezing him mid-step, his arm stretched out.

‘Of saying I love you,’ she said. ‘Back then I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to say it to your face.’

She regained her composure after that, like she'd said it all, and Jaime didn’t know what to do about that. He was still angry, he still wanted to fight. Then she got up, smoothing down the fabric of her slacks, and he knew from the set of her jaw and the rigid line of the broad shoulders that something was wrong.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m leaving,’ she said, like it was obvious.

‘We’re not done here,’ he countered, voice rising in panic.

She raised her hands, resuming her pacing from earlier ‘What else is there to say? You hate me, of course you do. I fucked everything up! I’m so sorry, Jaime, but I can’t fix it. So what’s the point?’

‘The point?' he growled. 'The point is you’re supposed to grovel for a bit, I’m supposed to say it’s going to take me a while to forgive you but I’ll get there eventually, and then we work on getting over this because we love each other!’

‘Jaime…’

‘Stop walking towards that door, Brienne,’ he said, and she sensed the intent to sound threatening because she turned around to glare at him, and it made his heart lighter for a second there, because at least he was on familiar ground again.

‘Or what? Come on Jaime, you might have changed your mind, but we both know you asked me here with every intention to break up with me. And it’s fine, I deserve it. We _should_ end this now. What’s the point of sitting around, waiting for the castle to crumble brick by brick?’

‘Because we built the castle in the first place. Because I love you and you love me.’

She frowned, anguish in her eyes like she wanted to flee but needed to stay to understand his nonsense.

‘But you _should_ want to break up with me,' she said.

‘Perhaps. Perhaps I even did, for a minute. But then you showed up, and… I’m still angry, but I _understand._’

‘You shouldn’t understand!’ she shouted. ‘What I did was despicable, dishonourable. I lost any right to call myself someone who deserves you, Jaime. You even kept my secrets, you protected me, and I blew it.’

‘Oh, don’t talk about deserving, and should and shouldn'ts you infuriating cow! It’s about what we _want._’

He stood taller and walked until they were face to face, close enough to kiss.

‘Go on,’ he hissed, and he knew she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Tell me you don’t want me anymore.’

She sighed, and he felt that, too.

‘I will always _want_ you, Jaime. I just don’t want to look at the man I love every day and have to remember how much I hurt him. And you deserve better than to look at my ugliness every day.’

‘Brienne, we talked about –

She reached for the fingers of his left hand, touching, not squeezing.

‘Inside, Jaime,’ she murmured, with another sad smile too small for her perfect lips. ‘The ugliness _inside_ of me.’

*

Outside, the storm had passed.

Inside, Jaime picked up the copy of _Stormborn_ and tried his best to smooth the crumpled pages, one last desperate attempt to salvage all he had left of Brienne.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How Brienne met Jaime" & "A conversation with Renly and a revelation about how the "hack" really happened."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so very nervous about posting this, so reading your comments and seeing the kudos made me feel all warm inside, thank you all so much <3  
I hope you like this follow-up. I have now sort-of outlined this fic, and it should be 7 chapters and about 25k long when I'm done with it. I'm still following the JB Week prompts but it might take me a bit longer than just this week to finish it, especially if the chapters keep getting longer!
> 
> Happy reading, I hope you enjoy Brienne's PoV :)
> 
> (Btw, if anyone would like to proofread/beta this fic, drop me a line here or on tumblr @foreshadowings - I don't feel super comfortable posting unbeta'ed work so I would be very grateful!)

The next few days were a blur. She was too busy trying to find out who hacked her, and why, to spend too long thinking about Jaime. Or at least that was the idea. In reality, how could she think about anything other than the twice-betrayed look in his stupidly green eyes when she said she was leaving?

'Earth to Brienne, hello!'

Renly was Brienne's publisher, and the best friend she'd ever had, before she met Jaime. He was still her confidante, cheerleader and planner of surprise parties to celebrate the release of a new book. And now, they were both in trouble.

'You're worried about Jamie, I get it,' said Renly, gently. 'But we need to talk about this.'

She sighed. 'Of course. Besides, he's not mine to worry about anymore, I have to let this go.'

'Ha, please!'

The spontaneous exclamation startled her. 'I'm sorry?'

Renly leaned over the table and said, in a whisper that was completely unnecessary since they were alone in the room: 'You do know Bobby still has to see Cersei every weekend when they exchange the kids, right?'

'Right.' The last thing she wanted was to think about Cersei, not after Jaime had read the terrible things she wrote about the two of them.

'Well, Tyrion told Myrcella who told Cersei who told Robert that Jaime crashed at Tyrion's this weekend. Apparently he was moping and drinking and being all around miserable. Why do you think that is?'

Brienne clenched her coffee mug.

'Because I wrote insulting things about his family and now they'll have to deal with even more nasty rumours because of me?'

'No you big dumb fool, because you left him! Look, you know I’m not overly fond of the arsehole. He was terrible to Loras when he was coaching the fencing team and Loras was on it - mind you, he was terrible to everyone at the time. But my point is, he does love you. Now, you know I'm a firm believer in the idea that you deserve a man with more than just one redeeming quality, but apparently you care about the jackass as well. Don't you?'

'I do,' she mumbled, and Renly smiled and she knew he was picturing her as a grumpy bride, all but growling her wedding vows, and frankly the image was a bit funny to her as well. But there would be no wedding for her, ever, because if she couldn't marry Jaime there was no point.

'Well then, fix it, my friend.'

'I can't unwrite the book or travel back in time to stop that hacker, Renly. It's too late.'

'Seven's sake, not the book, your damn relationship. I know Jaime, he'll take you back in a heartbeat if you just grovel a little. Loras agrees.'

A small smile formed on her lips. 'That's what Jaime said, actually.’ Then, after a beat: ‘Wait, you told Loras we broke up? That means Margaery knows, which means everyone knows!'

Renly shrugged, completely unapologetic. 'I can't _not_ tell Loras about break-ups sweetie, sorry. They're too much fun to talk about. He doesn't know why you broke up though, and before you start panicking I don't think anyone made the connection between the book and your break-up. It just looks as though Jaime is having a pretty shit week. I didn't tell Loras about “Duncan”, and I never will. Although, it would be easier if...'

'I'm not revealing myself as Duncan, Renly. Especially not after this. It was all a terrible mistake.'

'Don't say that. We sold a lot of books. And we had fun, didn't we? I know you secretly enjoy writing them more than you do the historicals.'

'I absolutely do not.'

'Yes, you do,' he smirked, 'and secretly bitchy Brienne is my favourite Brienne.'

'No you don't, because she does not exist.'

He put his hand on top of hers. 'Bri, someday you'll realise it's okay to be you. All of you. I know it's a process, the gods know it took me a while to get there, but you will too.'

She sighed. 'Sometimes I toss and turn in bed wondering how anyone could be cruel enough to write the things I write.'

'You're not writing about your own cruelty though, you're writing about theirs.'

'Hmm.'

'Anyway, the problem is you got hacked. Which means someone's guessed who you are.'

She nodded. 'But why didn't they expose me, then? That's what I don't understand. The only copy of that file was on my hard drive, it's not like they could have...'

Oh, shit.

'Bri?' asked Renly, suddenly nervous.

'A couple of weeks ago I went through my old memory sticks, in an attempt to sort out ten years of writing files...'

'Procrastinating on the edits?' he asked, gently mocking.

'Obviously,’ she deadpanned.

'Go on...'

‘One of them was missing, but I assumed I'd find it eventually, somewhere in the mess.'

'You think it was stolen.'

'Or lost. It only had drafts of Duncan’s stories, and I changed the author's name to 'DT' in the files. If someone found that memory stick, they may not even know it was mine...'

They both released a breath they didn't know they were holding. Brienne was safe, for now.

'Okay,' said Renly, 'so that explains why you weren't exposed. And why Gendry didn't find any signs of hacking on your computer - honestly, I was starting to think he was just as incompetent as his father.'

That got a weak laugh out of Brienne. Now that the fear of being found out was temporarily gone, she felt dizzy and flushed.

'You should lie down, Bri,' said Renly, putting his mug down and grabbing his jacket from the sofa. 'This is good news. We don't have to worry about your name being dragged anymore.'

'No, you'll just have to keep answering the press' questions about who Duncan Tall is.'

'Let me worry about that, I can handle it. You take care of the edits. If _Baelo_r's release is delayed, _then_ people might get suspicious. And start planning how to get your man back!'

Brienne tried to chuckle at that, but all that left her mouth was a desperate breath. Then she remembered something odd Renly said.

'Wait, Renly?'

'Hmm?'

'Why would Cersei tell Robert about Jaime and I breaking up? They barely nod at each other on a good day.'

Renly looked embarrassed for a second. 'Well, apparently she...was in a better mood than usual.'

He needn’t say more. Cersei thought she was getting Jaime back. For his sake, Brienne hoped it didn't happen.

*

_Three years ago_

'It's bloody hot out here!'

It was, and she was flushed and sweaty around the temples, and she didn't want to talk to anyone.

Yet she turned to her side, not wanting to seem _too_ rude, even by her usual standards of social awkwardness, and there he was. The prettiest man in Westeros. She was reluctant to say 'most beautiful' because after years of repeating to herself that beauty was on the inside she had to at least pretend to believe it. And well, Jaime Lannister was not a very nice man. Or so she'd been told. She had never actually met him before. But now he'd come up to talk to her, of all people, which meant he intended to mock her, which in turn meant he was probably as far from nice as people said. 'People' being Renly, Loras, and the Stark family. Oh, and the media and the internet. But she of all people should know you shouldn’t trust those.

'Are you rambling to yourself inside that big head of yours, wench?'

'What did you call me?' she asked, choking on outrage.

'Oh, you have a nice voice,' said Lannister with a boyish grin. 'I have to confess I didn't know what to expect. Would it be a low growl, like our beloved bodyguard Sandor 'The Hound’ Clegane - he's over there, look - or a little girl's voice that wouldn't suit you at all. But yours is nice,' he conceded with a tilt of his head.

She gaped at him and he was clearly amused. The rest of the garden party was doing anything but pay attention to them, so he knew he could rile her up and no-one would notice.

'I did not come here to be mocked and insulted by the likes of you, Lannister.'

'Oh, you know who I am, how exciting! I never get recognised at all, it's really frustrating,' he lied in a mock-conspiratory tone, leaning towards her like it was normal for his head to be so close to hers. She could smell his peppery aftershave and it wasn’t an unpleasant smell at all.

She sighed. 'What do you want?'

Jaime shrugged. 'Company that's not my father, my sister or my brother? Not that I actually mind him, he's pretty great when he makes an effort, but he's drunk already, so...'

Brienne raised a long muscular arm to gesture at the vast extent of park in front of them. 'So take your pick. Go bother any of them. Why me?'

'You were alone, I thought...you could use the company,' he said, and underneath the sarcasm there was an undercurrent of understanding that she absolutely did not want to examine.

She straightened up, determined to keep looking right in front of her until he grew bored and left. She had not come here to be bothered by the likes of Jaime Lannister. She had come because she had been invited, and she would never do them the favour of not showing up. Let them stare and mock the ugly heiress who would never find a husband. Her father hated coming to the mainland just for these occasions, so it was agreed that Brienne, who lived in King's Landing already, would represent him at social events. It was practical and she had no reason to refuse.

Of course, now, she had another reason to attend Olenna Tyrell's garden parties, but the other guests did not need to know that.

Renly was pressuring her to write another Duncan Tall novel. The first two had sold very well, which Brienne didn't know how to feel about. It was wrong, she knew, to mock because she'd been mocked, to torture because she'd been used as a living dummy for people to practice cruelty on. And yet, it was liberating. But right now, she was stuck. She didn’t know who to write that third novel about.

'So, do you think he's here?' Lannister whispered in her ear, still standing much closer that was appropriate, like he was really determined to make people believe the two of them were working on some secret plan to achieve world domination.

Brienne frowned. 'Who?'

'Duncan Tall,' he slurred, and Brienne's heart skipped a beat. 'It has to be one of the guests.'

She swallowed before speaking, praying to the gods she wouldn't sound nervous. 'What makes you think that?'

'Well, let's see.' He started to count on his fingers, a smile of childish excitement of his face, like he'd been waiting to talk about Duncan Tall all day. And he'd come to _her_ to have that particular conversation.

_Breathe, stay calm. He can't possibly know._

'Olenna Tyrell pretty much invites the same people every year. I should know, I've been dragged to these "parties" since I was fifteen. Duncan Tall's first novel was about Hyle Hunt and his friend Connington, and, in what I believe was Chapter Fifteen of the book, our two antiheroes have a very deep conversation under a willow tree.' He pointed at, wait for it, the ancient willow tree she'd used as inspiration. 'And in this conversation, they mention their latest terrible idea. A bet, a friendly competition to see who could get a certain very tall, broad-shouldered heiress to bed first,' he finished with a pointed look.

'And how do you know all that?' she choked, but at least he'd believe she was simply upset about the mention of the bet.

He shrugged. 'Because they were too drunk to notice me.'

'You were spying on them?'

'So what? I was bored.'

'And you... Never mind,' she finished pitifully, eager to run before the bubble of pain that formed inside her chest whenerver she was forced to remember her humiliation burst, and she started to cry in front of Jaime Lannister.

He raised an eyebrow. 'And I what? And I didn't come to your rescue like a proper knight, is that it? Should I have warned you? I didn't even know who you were.'

'Is that why you're suddenly eager to get to know me?'

He huffed. 'Don't flatter yourself, wench. I came to you because I want to speculate about Duncan Tall's identity, and you seemed like the right person for the task, being a writer and all.'

'How does that make me the right person for the task?'

'Surely you've analysed all our speech patterns and behaviours by now. So tell me, who's the most likely candidate? Petyr Baelish? Olenna Tyrell? Perhaps your precious Renly is our hero in disguise, hiding in plain sight, publishing his own vitriol. What do you thing? Would he even tell you if it were the case?'

'Most people say it's you.'

'Yes. But why would it be me?'

'You admitted to spying on Hunt and Connington, which makes you the most likely candidate.'

'And yet the bet was about you,' he countered, pointing a finger at her. She took a step back, feeling cornered.

'I'm not that kind of writer.'

'It's true, the writing style is very different from your romantic accounts of the Targaryen Conquest.'

'Like you've actually read any of them.'

'Eh, you write about swords a lot. I'm a pretty easy man to please,' he said, with an infuriatingly flirty grin that made her want to shove him.

His green eyes glinted and his perfect blonde hair, longer than hers, was still in place when hers was wet and sticky because of all her sweating. He kept looking right at her, unwilling to break eye contact, almost as if the sight of her wasn't completely repulsive. Almost as if they were having a moment. She needed to bring it to an end.

'Why are you even here? Aren't you supposed to be "estranged" from your family?'

'Well, I needed cash and this was Father's condition. What can you do?' he admitted, completely unashamed. Had he really no emotions apart from occasional contempt for his inferiors, and bouts of rage that led to terrible things like beating up the senator he was campaigning for, thus forcing him to withdraw and ensuring his father got a landslide win?

'Life must be so easy for you,' she whispered, trying her best to channel disgust and failing, enthralled by his unwavering gaze. He nodded at her words, an imperceptible motion of the head, nothing at all, really. He said nothing. Just kept looking.

In the end, he broke first.

'Well, I must go. It was nice meeting you, wench. I do like your books, perhaps you should sign one for me some time.'

He was walking past her, towards the buffet, leaving at last, but of course he had to brush his shoulder against her, and lean towards her again, and say 'And perhaps you liked mine too. Perhaps I did write that book to avenge you, like the knight in shining armour you always wanted.'

Her cheeks burned red, and it wasn’t the heat, nor was it because he was indeed very pretty. Her friends had been right. Jaime Lannister was a complete arsehole.

*

_Present day._

Try as she might, she could not focus on the edits. _Baelor_, her epic historical novel about the construction of the infamous sept, was due for another round of corrections in three weeks’ time.

But how could she stomach even looking at the manuscript now, when Jaime's little notes in the margins jumped off the page. Insightful remarks about fights, of course, but also 'Oh's and 'Ah's and little hearts and smiley faces, too. They were meant to make her feel better and give her the push she needed to finish the edits, but now they just made her want to cry.

How could she be so stupid, so careless, so unworthy?

She got up and walked back to the kitchen. Even being in her study made her feel uncomfortable. It was there she'd started writing her first secret novel, in the late hours after that stupid ball, drunk off her arse with ugly tears streaming down her face. When Renly came round to comfort her the next day, he found the handwritten pages scattered across her desk, and his eyes had lit up.

Renly loved the works of Duncan, and the idea of Duncan. It was revenge, he thought, for everything people like she and Renly and Loras had been put through by the Hunts and Conningtons of this world, the Ramsay Boltons and Cersei and Tywin Lannisters.

It was in the same study that she'd sat in front of her laptop, very sober this time, and decided that if Jaime Lannister was arrogant enough to toy with her that way, pretending he of all people could be Duncan, then he deserved his own sequel.

Deep down, she'd known she was feeling extra spiteful because whenever rumours about Jaime Lannister, or his brother Tyrion, or even Baelish resurfaced, she was hurt as much as she was relieved. No-one ever suggested Duncan could be her, Brienne, who already had a writing career to her name, who had more reason than anyone to want revenge.

But the truth was – and she felt it more acutely than ever before – the truth was that, in their own twisted way, the very same people who despised her also thought too highly of her. Loyal, honest, honourable Brienne Tarth would never write such things, would never hide behind a pseudonym. She was resilient and forgiving, like her noble characters from her wordy novels about long-ago.

And Jaime, poor Jaime thought too highly of her as well. When he found out about Duncan, he laughed and patted her on the shoulder. After the leak, he was still willing to forgive her, to fight and make things work. How could he not see they were beyond saving?

She never deserved him. When Jaime kept a secret, it was for the greater good. When she kept one, it was to make sure the ugly parts of her would never be seen. The moral gap between the two of them was too wide to be grossly stitched back together like he'd offered to do.

*

She meticulously avoided her phone until evening. She didn't want to talk to Margaery or Sansa about her feelings, she didn't even want to get hammered in blissful silence with Clegane.

She didn't want to know whether Jaime had texted again.

The night after she left his house, their text chain had read something like:

_take me back, wench. _

_i mean, u were supposed to beg, but ill do the begging if thats wat it takes_

_i love you. i'm writing it once, not 3 times, so u know it's true_

_brienne_

_brienne, call me back_

_i still have a ton of your trash. like your ugly ass robe, the one with the hole in the pocket._

_coward_

_i still want to yell at u about the nasty things you wrote. u can't take that away from me_

_wench, please. it's not yourself you're punishing._

_Brienne, this is Tyrion Lannister. Apologies about my brother's drunk-texting. Although, oddly enough, his spelling might be slightly better than when he's sober. Anyway, he's in bed now. Please forgive the poor man's ungentlemanly conduct. He just got his heart broken, you see. _

She took a deep breath and unlocked the phone.

A dozen heart emoji from Sansa. Question marks and "*hugs*" from Margaery. A meme about all men being trash from Jon Snow's girlfriend Ygritte, whom Brienne didn't even know that well. It warmed her heart and made her a bit sick at the same time, to see how many people were willing to take her side in the break-up without even knowing what really happened

And nothing from Jaime. Nothing from Tyrion either, so that meant Jaime had to be alright, at least?

She'd assumed he had gotten pretty drunk that first night, but this morning Renly had implied he was still staying at his brother's, still in this state.

What was she supposed to do? Call Tyrion? She didn't particularly want to talk to him. She was terrified a drunken Jaime might have told his brother all about the reason they broke up. She trusted Tyrion to keep it a secret – he would do it if Jaime asked, and Jaime would – but the less people knew what a terrible person she really was, the better.

Defeated, she put the phone back on her bedside table and went to sleep.

*

She woke up in a sweat at two in the morning.

In her dream, she was working at Jaime's desk, on his computer, wearing the old, worn-out robe with the hole in the pocket. He came up behind her, kissing up her neck, nuzzling her hair, cupping a feel of her breast through her robe until she moaned and forgot what she was writing about. It should have made her so angry, being interrupted mid-sentence like that, but everything around her was Jaime, and she wanted Jaime. In the dream, all she had to do was blink and they were suddenly naked, and she was perched up on the desk and he was thrusting into her and everything was bliss.

But in real life, when a very similar scene had taken place, Brienne had saved the file in a hurry, ripped out the memory stick she'd been working with and dropped it in her robe's pocket before shrugging out of it, leaving it abandoned on the chair while she and Jaime raced back upstairs.

Oh, fuck. It hadn't been a dream. That’s where she lost that memory stick. At Jaime's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Jaime will finally drag his drunken arse off Tyrion's couch. How will he deal with people still believing he is "Duncan"?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of facing his problems, Jaime runs away. To Dorne. And it doesn't go very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this was a long pause, right? I'm so sorry about that. I was away from home for a week and couldn't write, then I kept getting sick and that totally killed my momentum, to the point where when I sat down to write more of this I no longer had any idea of what I wanted to write about in the first place...  
Now I'm more or less back on track I hope to finish it before NaNoWriMo starts, but I can't make any promises.
> 
> I hope this is readable and at least a little bit enjoyable. Thank you for the comments and likes on the previous chapters, they're very much appreciated <3
> 
> (And I still don't have a beta, so if anyone's interested, hit me up!)
> 
> The JB Week prompt was 'Vacation'.

He could only take advantage of his brother's hospitality for so long, and after several days of binge-drinking and daytime television marathons, even he had enough. Not to mention the fact he had to endure it all in the company of Bronn, of all people - the man and his snarky comments seemed to have taken semi-permanent residence at his brother's flat.

So, after a brotherly hug and a promise not to be a stranger, Jaime, wearing used jeans, a flannel shirt and a grey beanie in the hope of disappearing in the airport crowd, flew to Dorne.

Never mind that he was probably the only person flying to a foreign country to be alone a few weeks before the Winter Solstice, instead of going home to celebrate. Never mind that all his plans to make the most of the festive mood with his stern yet easily flustered girlfriend were bound to remain sweet fantasies, locked away in a corner of his mind.

*

At least, in Dorne, it was too warm to even think of ice skating and hot chocolate, of kissing by the fireplace and sleeping tangled in furs.

Oh, well. Where was the damn minibar?

*

Three hours and a few vodkas later and Jaime's thoughts of Brienne had taken a less romantic turn. Pain swelled up in his chest, igniting all the suppressed self-loathing the discovery of her secret manuscript has dug up again.

Attempting to rationalise it didn't help at all.

_Of course she thought very little of me, I was a complete arsehole when we met._

_She wanted revenge because I had the nerve of pretending to be Duncan. What a twat._

But even then, the timeline hurt. Even if she started writing that book before they began to tolerate each other, before she became a need as natural as air, the kind of need there is no point in fighting - even then, it didn't erase the fact that she finished it _after_. Because that character based on him, that Jeremy, needed _redemption_, she'd said.

Could he even believe her? After she hid something so big from him, could he believe anything she said?

'Come on now Jaime,' a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like a very sober Tyrion instead of a very drunk Jaime said. 'Why are you still torturing yourself with this? You're not together anymore. She's broken up with you. It's not your problem now.'

Well, _that_ was the problem, wasn't it? In his mind, they weren't broken up. He was stuck, thinking up ways to get over their issues, to fix things, when she clearly didn't want to.

Didn't want him anymore. Even his love served up on a plate, his instant forgiveness for anything as long as she swore she would stay - even that was not enough.

Why was that even a surprise? He had never been enough for anyone in his life. Why would someone as good as Brienne settle for a lifetime with the likes of him? He had given her an out by getting angry with her, and she had taken it.

Now, all he could do was sleep.

*

_Where has Jaime Lannister gone?_

Every gossip website's headline was about the whereabouts of the golden-haired heir to the Lannister fortune. Estranged or not, it was still that status that made people believe he had to be interesting, had to be worth reading about. So everyone who had a news app on their phone could feel it ping every hour with ludicrous completely made up updates about where he was and who he was with.

Including him. You have to keep tabs on yourself, right?

'Keep that phone away, Mr Marbrand,' chanted the very handsome, very ridiculous tour guy. 'How are you supposed to enjoy the legendary beauty of Dorne while looking at a screen? The screen will still be there when you go home, but Dorne... Ah, but Dorne will remain in your heart, if only you look.'

Jaime, who had given his college friend’s name when he booked the room even though that was probably not a good idea, knew a lot about things that stayed in your heart forever because you'd looked a bit too closely and realised how beautiful there were.

The tour guide was right, of course. The gardens were beautiful, and the architecture, and the sea. And very few could afford the privilege of basking in warm sunlight when the rest of the country had to walk through rain, mud and snow to get to work. So he might as well enjoy it. Yet he felt none of the elation he had once, when he stepped out into the morning sun after a terrible night locked away in a basement. Then, he'd felt drunk on sunlight. He would have done anything to grab one of the rays and hold it in his palm forever.

Brienne had been by his side then. That might be the difference.

The group of tourists consisted in family-less bores like him who were wealthy enough to escape the humiliation of being the only person in the neighbourhood alone for the winter celebrations, and a few couples whose children had left home and who thought a romantic getaway was a suitable reward for years of parenting – or a last desperate attempt to keep the flame alive.

One of those desperate-to-be-happy couples was the reason Jaime had hopped on the guided tour bus, in fact. He'd finally washed and gotten something to eat, in an attempt to absorb the alcohol from the night before. But then, on his way back from the restaurant to the lift that would take him back to his room, he had caught a glimpse of Stannis Baratheon. From the miserable way he stood, and his glaring at the lift's buttons, it had to be him. Now was not the time to accidentally run into Cersei's former brother-in-law. So he'd turned around as fast as he could and sauntered towards the courtyard like that had always been his plan. Luckily, neither Stannis nor Selyse had seen him.

Oh, Gods. What would he tell Stannis if he ever had to talk to him again? Or Renly? Stupid Renly who had to be with Brienne right now, telling her how right she was to end things with him.

Because it was obvious, wasn’t it? Plain as day. What the book revealed.

That the Baratheons’ nephews had never been their nephews to begin with.

*

_Where has Jaime Lannister gone? _

It was still everywhere, in the headlines, on the internet.

And it was a miracle he hadn't been found. He wasn't exactly hiding after all, unless hiding in plain sight in the Dornish sun was in fact a better strategy than he had anticipated. True, this particular resort and its employees were not for their discretion, but even that couldn’t last forever.

Later, in his room bathed in sundown light, he turned on his phone again.

An email from his brother. A single link.

_Could _Valonqar_ be Jaime Lannister's payback for everything his family put him through? _

“Jaime Lannister has gone. Gone where, you ask? Well, we might have some idea, as the disgraced and rebellious Lannister heir was photographed at the airport on Monday. But the point of this article is not to reveal where he went. You have to wonder, as we're all wondering, if his sudden disappearance has anything to do with the leak of "Valonqar”, an unpublished Duncan Tall novel about the trials and tribulations of a rich and powerful family, with colourful characters that might – just might – resemble the golden lions of a certain Westerosi upper-class dynasty.”

‘Well, I could have told you that,’ Jaime thought. He skimmed the article until his brother’s name jumped out of the page and he squinted to focus on the paragraph.

“It is well-known that while Tyrion Lannister, the scholar of the family, has denied being Tall on numerous occasions, his older brother Jaime never has done any such thing, going as far as making allusions that kept the suspense alive for years. But why, why would he write something so incriminating about his own clan? And why would he leak it online?”

Why indeed?

“'Jaime has always hated himself,' a source close to the family tells us. ‘From his school years when he wasn't great at reading, to the days that followed the Targaryen scandal, to the loss of his hand, he thought he was this tortured soul that was a bit cursed by the Gods. But he was always secretly a bit of an artist, I always thought. I could see him write it all down in a splash of genius and spite – perhaps he had help? It has to be him, who else would know all the sordid details of the hand loss and his relationship with his sister?'”

“'Jaime's mental health has been a problem for a while,' says the sister in question, the recently divorced Cersei Lannister. ‘This is him putting his fantasises on paper to exorcise them, I think. I want to believe he never planned to publish it, that he’s been hacked and exposed by someone with malicious intent. But… if he’s behind this, then he's doing it to damage us, to hurt us, which does sound like him. Ever since he's been set aside as heir to the company he's been looking for a way to get revenge.’

Tywin Lannister has declined to comment. A representative for Mr Lannister has stated the story was ‘so ludicrous it is very much a stretch to assume the characters depicted have anything to do with himself and his children.’”

Of course, dear old Father would refuse to believe any of it.

Jaime tossed the phone on the bed.

It hit the mattress and bounced back, falling on the floor with a feeble “thump”.   
What a load of bullshit. Who was the cunt who thought he “hated himself”? Why was Cersei not denying he could be Duncan? She sounded like she was certain he was, which didn’t make any sense.

Boy, did his head hurt. And not a word from Brienne. The alcohol in his system told him perhaps she was pleased to have the attention directed away from her, but he knew Brienne could never be cruel. She had to have a reason to keep on ignoring him.

Please, make it so.

*

Dorne was beautiful, even at this time of year. Especially this time of year, perhaps, as the heat wasn’t suffocating but the sun was strong enough to warm, and the trees still green. On a nice day, you could persuade yourself it was summer still.

Except today he was cooped up in his hotel room, because this time, Stannis and Selyse were outside, about to go on the seaside tour Jaime was a bit keen on. And Stannis being outside meant Jaime had to stay hidden inside. When would they leave? It was a miracle he'd managed to avoid the man so far. Perhaps he blended in better than he thought.

Well, he _was_ aging, that was more or less fact. Was he becoming unnoticeable on top of grey?

It had been four days, and he wasn't any closer to clearing his head and figuring things out as he'd set out to do when he left. Naively, he'd assumed that by running away, something would happen, like in the movies, something life-changing or self-affirming and he would come home a changed man. A man who would never handle the situation with Brienne this poorly. A man who would not have been infuriating and unkind in the first place.

He must have done something to make her fall for him, once. He could do it again, couldn't he? If only he remembered.

*

The local bookshop didn't have anything that interesting. Local cuisine cookbooks – but he couldn't cook. Racy historical novels about Dornish princes and their paramours – he would get one if he was still bored in a day or two. Glancing at the shelves, running the fingertips of his left hand on the covers, he stopped when the book under them felt too familiar. The jacket was too soft, the colour too blue.

It was _Stormborn_ again. There was no escaping.

On a whim, he bought it. Because why not? He knew it by heart and this copy would not be signed by the woman he loved, but his stupid romantic heart couldn't help but _want_ anything that would trick it into feeling close to her.

The cashier looked up and down, from his face to the book and back again and Jaime raised an eyebrow, daring her to say anything. She didn't.

*

Back in his room, he wondered about one thing that wasn't all over the gossip news. His breakup. People must know, at this point. That the Duncan Tall leak caused Jaime to break-up with his novelist girlfriend, before he cowardly ran away to the-Gods-knew-where.

But there was nothing much. A few people speculated on social media that Brienne must have been ashamed to find out her boyfriend was a writer too, if he was _that_ kind of writer; but that was a bit of a weird take in his opinion. Others pointed out that she must have confronted him about what the book exposed and finally dumped him – why ‘finally’, was he so awful? – and that was more plausible, at least. But it didn't seem like Brienne was being harassed, nor was she close to being found out. He was relieved, in a way. He loved her too much to want her to be in trouble, especially over him. At least that's how he felt during the ‘good’ hours of his days, when he knew he could talk to her, if she would let him, and sound like an adult.

There were other times when he didn't feel so mature, when he knew he would snap and bite and hurt. Perhaps he thought she deserved it too, at least a little bit.

It wasn't the book he was mad about, he realised. Not really. It was her reluctance to face a fight. Weren't they solid enough? Did she not believe in them at all, to think a fight would break them? He felt shattered and a bit insulted by that. He must not be much of a partner, if she couldn't have that kind of trust in him. Then again, what did he know about healthy relationships, before he met her? Not much, and neither did she. It was no wonder they'd failed in the communication department.

He needed to fight, needed the confrontation. For the first time in his life he thought he had someone he could speak his mind to without facing immediate rejection, and he was wrong.

Ah. Perhaps that was what hurt the most.

*

A beep, then another.

What the... ‘Your phone is not supposed to ring at two in the morning when you're hiding away in Dorne to sulk,’ thought a sleepy Jaime. Especially when you've just managed to fall asleep after reading two hundred pages of your girlfriend's – ex-girlfriend's, dammit – bestseller and hearing her voice in your head when the heroine speaks.

He picked up without reading the caller's name.

'Yeah?'

'Jaime, it's me,' said a familiar voice that was usually deadlier and more velvety than this.

'Cersei? What do you want?'

'Where the hell are you?'

Even his sleep-addled brain managed to transmit the words 'That's none of your business' to his mouth and he was a little bit proud.

'I had to call. Even Tyrion doesn't know where you’ve gone,’ she accused.

He laughed, bitter. 'You went as far as asking Tyrion? Wow, you must have been worried.'

'I know you broke up with _her'_

He drew in a breath. The soft sheets suddenly felt abrasive against his skin and the temperature too warm even in the dead of night.

'Ah, so that's what this is about, not my well-being. Of course. I thought you'd be calling to ask about the rumours, at the very least.’

‘Well?

‘Well, no. I didn't write that book. And no, I don't know who did.'

'Don't lie,' said Cersei immediately, and she sounded too sure of herself to be bluffing. What did she know? Had she found out about Brienne?

'I'm not lying,' he said, hoping the uneasy tone in his voice could be attributed to his barely-awake state.

'I understand why you did it, Jaime.'

'Did what?'

'Write about us. It's my fault, I isolated you, you had no-one to talk to, and when you lost your hand, I reacted poorly. Of course you needed the outlet.'

'What...'

'I'm trying to apologise!'

'Cersei, I didn't write that book, why would you... Wait.'

'Jaime?' Her voice sounded hard, like it did when she was trying to hide her uncertainty.

'I read a quote, in one of those trash articles. You sounded so convinced I could be this writer person, why?'

'I... Who else would know so much about us?'

'Have I ever mentioned anything about wanting to write a book, Cersei? That's Tyrion, not me.'

'And he kept saying it wasn't him.'

'And you all believe him. Why won't you believe me?'

'Because I know you're lying! Come on Jaime, I call you to make amends, to check up on you, and you...'

'You call me at two in the morning, to catch me tired and weak and possibly suggestible. Don't pretend it's to check up on me. I don't want to have this conversation, Cersei. Goodbye.'

He hung up, the epitome of rudeness, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He left the bed and started pacing. There was no going back to sleep now. Why had Cersei, of all people, convinced herself he was Duncan? It didn't make any sense. And he thought she'd be furious about being exposed, even in veiled terms. The two of them faced public humiliation after all, if any of it was confirmed. Not to mention the children... But no, she wanted to "apologise"? Since when was that a thing Cersei did?

*

Hastily dressed in slacks and a rumpled white shirt, Jaime found himself at the 24/7 open bar, sipping on whiskey and wishing someone would wake him up from his bad dream.

'Trouble sleeping?' an accented voice sing-songed. Jaime raised his head to look at the stranger. It wasn't a stranger, it was the tour guide. Oberyn?

'May I sit with you?'

'Suit yourself.'

'You look troubled, Jaime Lannister,' said Oberyn with a barely-there smile.

Jaime shifted on his seat, uneasy.

'Come on, _Addam Marbrand, _you know everyone at the resort is discreet, that's why you came here, unless I'm mistaken.'

'You're not being discreet,' grumbled Jaime.

'So, what if I recognised you? You've been here for days and no-one knows.'

'It's a matter of time. I can tell people know who I am, not just you. Someone's bound to sell the information, or just post it without meaning any harm, but the damage would be done regardless. I have to go home.'

'Do you want to go home?'

Jaime sighed. 'I don't really have anything to go home to.'

'Or anyone, you mean.'

'Sorry?'

Oberyn smiled. 'My daughter works at the bookstore. She's a big fan of Brienne Tarth's, though she wished she would write one of her novels about Dorne.'

Jaime chuckled in spite of himself. 'I'll pass on the message. If she ever speaks to me again, that is.'

'And why wouldn't she? Because you wrote that book?'

'For the last time, I did not –'

'But she did.'

Jaime stared at Oberyn for a while.

'What did you say?'

Oberyn shrugged. 'You don't have to confirm or deny it. I don't actually care. But someone who knows you wrote a book about you, and when that book is leaked, you break up with your woman, who happens to be a writer herself? Doesn't seem so hard to figure out,' he said with a curved eyebrow.

Jaime sighed.

'I won't tell,’ said Oberyn, reassuring, and Jaime decided to believe him, perhaps because he felt he could trust the man from the beginning or perhaps because he was really, really desperate to talk to someone.

‘It’s just… It’s so obvious, isn’t it? Yet no-one’s figured out yet.’

‘I have.’

‘You’re not a concerned party. Brienne, she’s… She’s wonderful. Kind, talented, funny when she trusts you enough to joke in front of you. The whole package. Except people tend to just…overlook her, ignore her.’

‘Because she’s not pretty.’

Jaime glared and Oberyn simply shrugged again. ‘I’ve seen pictures. I mean _I_ think she’s attractive enough, but let’s say my type is broader than most people’s.’

That didn’t make Jaime feel any less angry on her behalf. ‘Brienne’s all woman, thank you very much.’

Oberyn raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, I didn’t say otherwise!’ Then: ‘You have it bad, Lannister. How are you going to get her back?’

'I don't know. I haven't thought this far. She just... she assumed I'd want her gone, and I said I didn't, of course I didn't, but she... tried to do the _honourable_ thing.'

'And what did _you_ want?'

'To have a good fight, to scream at each other for a solid hour then make up!'

Oberyn nodded in understanding. 'Ah, yes. I can vouch for the merits of make-up sex.'

‘Got a lot of experience with it?’

The man chuckled and leaned back on his seat. He should have looked arrogant and ridiculous, but ‘stupidly handsome’ was the descriptive that came to mind. Jaime couldn't help but think Brienne would probably fancy him. He was the type of pretty boy she liked.

_Wait, what does that make me?_

'Let's say my paramour is feisty,’ said Oberyn. ‘But enough about me. What are going to do, since you don't hate her for writing that story, obviously.'

'She said she was never going to publish it. And I want to believe her. I do believe her.'

'If she's as honourable at you say, then I would believe her too.'

'She is. Honourable, that is,' said a voice behind them.

This time Jaime jumped for real.

Stannis the Stern emerged from behind a pillar, dignified stance and piercing eyes and deep voice and all. Oh crap.

'A word, Lannister?' asked Stannis with a tilt of his head, which Jaime would interpret as slightly amused if he believed Stannis capable of being amused, which he didn't.

Oberyn made to leave.

'You can stay!' said Jaime, perhaps sounding a little desperate.

'He can't,' said Stannis, then, turning to Oberyn 'I mean no disrespect, it's nothing personal.'

'Of course,' said the Dornishman, exiting with a bow, but not before he'd turned his weirdly seductive gaze to Jaime one last time and said 'Remember, if she's as honourable as you said, "the whole package", then she's worth fighting for. Also I don't want my daughter's favourite author to get writer's block over a broken heart. I'm told it happens, and Obara would be inconsolable. Gentlemen.'

'Martell,' said Stannis with a nod. Jaime said nothing. It was late and everything was surreal. He should have stayed in his room, that was the plan in the first place, after all. Why the hell did Cersei have to call and ruin his evening in more ways than one?

'Look, Stannis,' said Jaime, who wouldn't call him 'Baratheon' because that's how he used to call big stupid Robert to piss him off, 'I'm really drunk and I'm not sure if you're even real, or if that guy was, so get to the point, please.'

Stannis blinked, then looked at Jaime with an air of mild disapproval served with a side of pity that Jaime didn't like at all.

'I just wanted to talk before we left, and since you're obviously not sleeping and neither am I...'

'Fair enough. But what are _you_ doing down here at four in the morning?'

'The wife snores.'

'Romantic getaway not going so well, eh?'

'Don't start,' said Stannis, a flicker of menace in his eyes.

'Alright. Again, what do you want?'

'You've been avoiding me for days, hiding behind corners and running to the lift whenever you saw me,’ accused Stannis with a pointed finger.

'Ah,’ was all Jaime could answer.

'What, you thought you were invisible?' asked Stannis, like Jaime really was the stupidest man alive.

'Obviously I'm not,’ said Jaime, vexed.

'You're really easy to spot,’ Stannis confirmed, very seriously, like the whole conversation wasn’t absolutely ludicrous. ‘So I was wondering why you were so terrified of me. It can't be that we don't get along, since we never talked much. And I do worry about my nephews. All those rumours resurfacing can't be good for them. Have you heard about them?'

Well, that was something else. Stannis ambushing him at a bar in Dorne in the middle of the night to ask about the well-being of Robert's children – _his children, dammit – _when Robert himself didn't give a crap and Renly was probably too busy wondering how to turn the leak to his advantage to care.

'I don't know, I didn't ask,' Jaime admitted, looking down at the polished wood table and hating the distorted, golden brown reflection he saw there, his own face blurry and miserable.

'Right. I tried calling your sister but I'm pretty sure she's blocked my number.'

'Pretty sure at this point she's blocked mine too.'

'Did you write it?'

A sigh. 'No. No, for the last time, I did not. Even if I wanted to I couldn't write anything like that. It's flattering that you all believe my verbal sparring abilities translate to the written word, but I'm afraid they do not. I'm too _stupid_ for that,' he spat, with bitterness he didn't know he had.

'I don't care how smart or thick you are, Lannister, said Stannis matter-of-factly. But if your family's in trouble it means my family's in trouble, and unlike you, I intend to look after my own.'

'Yet you're here, like me. Away.'

Stannis sighed, weariness in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. 'Trying to save my family, the one I tried to build. I'm afraid it's too late.'

'I'm sorry,' said Jaime, still looking at the table.

'It'll be fine. It's been over for a long time, I think,’ said Stannis, suddenly too sad to be scary.

_Like me and Cersei_, Jaime wanted to say. _But not like me and Brienne. That was only just beginning._

_*_

He woke up late, sometime around eleven. And boy, his head was hurting. The Dornish sun was an aggression, the fresh air navigated the maze of his lungs poorly and he almost crashed to the floor trying to drag himself out of bed to go to the bathroom.

_Enough. No more drinking, no more late night hallucinations and babbling at people who may or may not have been there._

Oh no. He closed his eyes, drew a hand to his heart. Oberyn was definitely real and he'd admitted Brienne was Duncan. And then he told Stannis – Stannis – that he was the arsehole who didn't ask how the children were doing. He still wasn't sure that part really happened.

He took a shower, brushed his teeth, rummaged through his suitcase for clothes he hadn't worn yet. He caught a glimpse of _Stormborn_ on the bedside table and decided to leave it there. Enough of Brienne and her books. If she didn't want him anymore, then fine.

Oberyn said he should fight, but what did he know? Brienne was the one who sent him away, who apologised then ran instead of letting him process it.

Just because it was his first relationship after Cersei, and perhaps the first relationship he really wanted, didn't make it the right one. He was on the verge of making the same mistake all over again and holding onto a woman who didn't want or love him as much as he did her.

He swallowed, hard. The pain in his chest wouldn't go away anytime soon but perhaps the universe was teaching him a lesson. He needed to go home, and look after his children. He would sort out this manuscript business for his and his family's sake, not for Brienne’s.

*

It was only at the airport, passing time in the duty free area and trying to avoid Stannis all over again – the man kept casting him patronising side glances, which meant last night definitely happened – that he saw the notification on his phone.

It was an email, on his private address, the one only a handful of people knew. And Cersei didn't send emails, she preferred emotional calls.

_Dear Jaime,_

_I hope you're well. I'm not just saying that, I really hope you are._ _ It seems the buzz about you-know-what is dying down. I hope it is so, not for my sake, but for yours. _

_I was going to leave you in peace, but something’s come up. I have remembered something of significance, and I would like to discuss it with you, in person. If you could let me know when you’ll be back, I would be most grateful._

_After that, I promise you’ll never have to speak to me again._

_Yours always,_

_Brienne_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, the two idiots have to meet again to discuss 'the thing that's come up'.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet up. It doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm really sorry about another long wait... My health hasn't been helping at all this month (chronic illness ftw). So I'm writing this fic at a snail's pace, but I am writing it, and it will be my main focus in December, after NaNo is over.  
I hope you enjoy this chapter. It got away from me and things happened that weren't planned, and as a result it got a bit long, which I hope makes up for the delay between updates. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> (NB: note the rating change, I'm not sure it's entirely justified as the scene isn't super graphic, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.)

**Valonqar, page 67 (author unknown, probably the anonymous author known as ‘Duncan Tall’, unpublished manuscript) :**

_Jeremy Lance liked having his way. When you had been called irresistible your entire life, you ended up believing it. When the mirror of the outside world reflects the same perfect image back at you, over and over again, then that reflection must be accurate, mustn't it? And what the world said about him was that he was unbelievably handsome, charming to a fault, that he had great taste in clothes and a good sense of humour – if a bit aggressive. He was the perfect poster boy for the top family in Westeros. _

_Such a man attracted fake friends by the dozens and suitors, male and female, by the hundreds. And such a man would have a terribly hard time comprehending why the ugly duckling of the upper-class had no interest in his shiny self whatsoever._

_Why was the ugly mare being so difficult? So his honeyed voice had whispered a few words that stung. So she had seen the glint of malice in his green eyes. What of it? Surely that wasn't reason enough. His mean streak made him endearing, he'd been told, and his sweet sister was always right when it came to him. (If he felt the treacherous hand of doubt grasp his shoulder as he was thinking about Clarice and her well-informed assessments of his character, he shrugged it off.)_

_Clarice would despise him for caring about the opinion of sheep once more. And truthfully, he seldom did; but that particular sheep was too insignificant to be 'the one who would turn down Jeremy Lance'. He could not allow it. She was laughably ugly, dull, a disproportionately huge block of nothing. _

_He would break her. He would get her, turn her, make her like him. Because he could._

_*_

**Present day**

No wonder the people who knew him and believed he was the author of the book said it dripped of self-loathing. 'Jeremy' was a prick.

But it wasn't self-loathing, since he didn't pen the words. It was simply loathing. Proof Brienne had hated his guts until he'd worn her down.

She thought he tried to befriend her just to prove he could, because his ego was too big. At least it explained how reluctant she'd been when he'd approached her over and over again at social events. From her perspective, it must have seemed threatening. What could Jaime possibly want from Brienne, who at the time thought even less of her attractiveness – physical or social – as she did now?

The truth was simpler than that. He had a crush. Not that kind of crush, not at first – it pained him to admit it but it had taken getting to know her to find her more attractive, just like it had taken her getting to know him to realise he was more than a mean dumb pretty face. But anyway, he had a bit of a personality crush. She was tough, she had principles, and she had to have more thoughts than she expressed when he tried to talk to her. In fact, she must be bursting with them, if she needed to write all those books to let them out. He had this weird desire to be her confidante, her sounding board, the first person to hear her ideas, before she wrote them and shared them with the world. It could have been simple curiosity or greed, but even then, the small corner of his brain that was free from his family's hold already knew it could be more than that.

He sighed and closed the laptop. He needed to get through the draft, even though Tyrion had advised him not to – because Tyrion had read the whole thing, of course, but thought he could stop Jaime from doing the same. But Jaime needed to read all of it, so he could get to the redeeming bits, so he could read words about him that would be infused with the love she had for him when she wrote them – perhaps, perhaps, hopefully.

*

**Three years ago**

Brienne Tarth, when she met her readers and read her fancy prose out loud and signed her books, was a completely different Brienne Tarth, it appeared. She smiled, almost glowed. She stood taller and moved more gracefully. She was where she belonged.

One thing didn't change, though. She hated the sight of him.

'What are you doing here, Lannister?' she asked with what he now recognised as 'the trademark scowl'.

Jaime not-quite-slammed his copy of _Queen of Love and Strength_ on the table, a proud grin on his face.

'Only took me a week to read it!'

Behind him, teenagers snickered and whispered 'An entire week! Old man doesn't know what's good' followed by 'Shut up, can't you see that's Jaime Lannister?', then 'So what? My sister thinks he's hot but I don't see it.'

He could see the hint of a blush and a smile on Brienne's face. It made her look almost charming. He leaned towards her, put on his most seductive voice. 'What about you, Tarth? What's your opinion on my hotness?'

'Is that what you want me to write about in my dedication?’ she mocked back. 'Your so-called hotness?'

‘So-called? So you do in fact have an opinion about it? You. Have. Been. Looking.'

She growled, exasperated, but the amusement was not _completely_ gone from her eyes. He was getting somewhere.

'What do you want, Jaime?'

He shrugged. 'For you to sign my book. It's a good book.'

'And?'

'And nothing,' he said, as innocently as he could manage. He was telling the truth, he'd really come here with absolutely no plan besides talking to her, and, if he still couldn't befriend her, at least rile her up a bit, for fun.

She didn’t sound convinced.

'It's never "and nothing" with you.'

'Fine, if you insist, then may I tempt you with an offer of dinner? You've been signing for hours, you must be starving.'

She blushed the brightest red he’d ever seen. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. He was close to feeling bad about embarrassing her, but then…she laughed. It was a loud, booming noise that startled everyone for a second, including him. He realised he had never heard her laugh before. Once people had recovered from the surprise, they started chuckling with her and throwing appreciative glances at him, as if they were thanking him for making her laugh even though they hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d said to her.

For some reason, it annoyed him.

‘Wonderful, now everyone thinks I’m some sort of clown!’

She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t realise you were so stuck up!’

‘I can assure you I’m not. But it would be polite of you to answer my question.’

‘You don’t want to have dinner with me, Jaime, not really. Quit the bullshit.’

That stung, because she said the words almost fondly, like it was a thing they did now, him saying ludicrous things and her telling him off in good humour, and no, it was absolutely not the kind of dynamic he had in mind when he turned up. Well, maybe it was, but for a later time, when they were comfortable with each other and…what? Friends? Whatever. But for that to happen, he needed her to believe him for five minutes, and right now.

‘I’m serious!’

‘Alright,’ she sighed, ‘if you’re going to be a child about this, fine. Wait at the back until I’m done signing. And don’t think I’ll be too tired to punch you in the face if it turns out to be an elaborate joke.’

‘I’ll try my best to prove myself then, my lady,’ he said, with a mock bow before excusing himself and finding a corner to wait for her. He opened the book to take a picture of the dedication, then a selfie of himself holding the book and grinning widely. He wouldn’t do anything with the pictures, but it was worth seeing the exasperated (and perhaps a little bit fond) look on her face as she was watching him from the signing table, averting her eyes when she caught him looking.

*

**Present day**

**10:13 a.m**

_Jaime: So, I’m home._

_Brienne: I hope your flight went okay._

_Jaime: I didn’t die. Unfortunately, neither did Stannis._

_Brienne: Stannis?!_

_Jaime: Never mind. You said you wanted to meet._

_Brienne: Yes. I need to discuss something with you._

_Jaime: I have MANY things to discuss with you. If you’re going to keep trying to avoid the real conversation, I’d rather not do this._

_Brienne: We already talked and I wasn’t going to force my presence upon you again, but then this happened. I’m sorry._

_Jaime: !!! _

_Jaime: *eyeroll emoji* *facepalm emoji* *angry emoji*_

_Jaime: I am very sick of you right now. Come around at 3. My old flat._

_Brienne: I didn’t know you still had it._

_Jaime: The other one is surrounded by paparazzi. I count myself lucky they forgot I used to live here._

_Brienne: I’ll be here at 3._

*

**2:50 p.m**

It wasn’t hard to remember the way to his old ‘super-secret’ bachelor pad. She could walk there blindfolded. She _did_ drag him back there with blood-crusted eyes, once. It was dawn, she was beat up pretty rough and he was newly one-handed. The only thing he could say was ‘no, not the hospital, please no’. He would have kept kicking and screaming if she’d taken him anyway, so she played a nasty trick on him, pretending to take him home then taking a right turn as he was nodding off, weighing heavy on her shoulder. There was a small clinic nearby, a dodgy place run by a short, scrawny man named Qyburn. She would have run away the second she laid eyes on his mad scientist eyes, but she didn’t have better options at the time, and Qyburn cleaned Jaime’s wrist and stitched him up, saving him from what would have been a terrible and perhaps deadly infection. He didn’t ask for their names, though it was clear he had recognised, if not both of them, at least Jaime. The story had never made it to the papers, for which they had both been grateful.

Jaime’s old flat was on the fifth floor of an imposing historical building, all dark red bricks and flourished balconies. It was right next to one of the biggest parks and running trails in the city. A block away was Jaime’s old gym, his favourite Dornish restaurant, and the studio where he learned and later taught fencing. His life was in this neighbourhood. Yet he moved after he lost his hand, after he cut part of his family off with more determination, after he decided to prove to Brienne, and most importantly, to himself, that he could be a better man. It was difficult to visit him here, to see her actions had driven him to hide at the place he’d sought to avoid for a long time. Yet it was telling that he’d never sold the flat, and failed to mention it to her. She wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

When she rang the doorbell on the mahogany door, she told herself that if her heartbeat was a bit faster than it ought to have been, it was because she took the stairs, and for no other reason.

She didn’t know what to expect. When he opened the door in a theatrical move, narrowed his eyes at her and after an exasperated sigh said “You are _so_ dumb”, she knew she hadn’t been expecting _that._

*

**3:02 p.m**

‘Why am I so dumb, exactly?’

She couldn’t help herself. She knew she was playing into his game of over-the-top statements and overreacting. One should never play such a game with one Jaime Lannister. He may have lost his fencing crown long ago but he still held the number one spot in the Drama Queen Championships board. But she was weak; it had been _days_ and she missed the sound of his voice, the long intake of breath before he launched on one of his grand tirades.

His green eyes shone, and for a second it was strangely playful and strangely joyful to be reunited thus, however short that reunion was destined to be. Except he caught himself before his smile turned genuine, keeping his cards close to his heart and flashing her a hungry grin instead. She knew that grin. It used to visit her late at night, when she couldn’t sleep after her shameful writing sessions. Then, the ghost of the most arrogant version of him invited himself into her bed for many nights, and try as she might to chase him away, he remained, whispering and tempting and making her _want_. Jaime did not know that, for she had never given voice to those old torments in anybody’s presence, let alone his, and most likely never would.

It sat heavy on her stomach, the realisation that the grin still had the power to heighten her senses, to make her muscles tense in anticipation, to make her wet. But now was not the time to think about that. Now, Jaime was going to explain why she was dumb.

‘Well, first, that text message! “Force your presence on me”, is that what you wrote? In what language do I have to say that I _want_ to see you!’

She felt the beginning of a blush dance on her cheeks, and her heart swelled in hope and sadness.

‘Jaime, we both know…’

‘I’m serious! I’ll write it in verse, and in High Valyrian if that’s what it takes for you to get it into that thick head of yours. Well, I’ll have to ask Tyrion to teach me High Valyrian first – I know there are online courses but I heard they weren’t great... Anyway, I’ll do it, you know I’m a patient man, Brienne.’

‘That is absolutely incorrect, you are the most impatient man I have ever met,’ she replied to his babbling before she could censor herself and the amusement that crept into her tone, because he was so dramatic and ridiculous and _her Jaime_ still, which meant she hadn’t broken him, she wasn’t toxic enough or even powerful enough which in this case was a good thing, and —

‘For you, wench, I’ll wait an age and learn a thousand languages,’ he said, his left hand pressed to his chest in a mock dramatic stance, following the tone of an exchange that was going unexpectedly well so far.

But then, it seemed he realised, just like she did, that it was going _too _well. He dropped his hand, dropped the lightness in his voice, too.

‘I mean it, Brienne,’ he murmured, small and hurt and all _wrong_ now. ‘Stop whatever it is that you’re doing to protect yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. I was never going to hurt you. If I did it was when I didn’t know better and I’ve been trying my best to fix things ever since. Please.’

‘Jaime, it’s not you that needs to fix things.’

He wiped shiny eyes and she felt the tears in hers too, but her arms stayed heavy by her sides, unable to move.

‘I know. But you’re not _trying_ to fix them.’

‘I am,’ she protested. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘To talk about us?’ he asked, disbelieving, knowing as much as he might hope for it that it was not the reason for her visit.

‘To talk about the leak. If I can find out who —‘

‘Dammit Brienne! Who cares who leaked your bloody book? The problem is not that it was leaked, the problem is that you wrote it!’

‘I know!’ she cried, and Gods, did she _know._ ‘I know that’s unforgivable, that’s why I’m not asking forgiveness of you.’

He ran a nervous hand through golden hair. He was all nerves, in fact, turning towards and away from her several times until he could decide on which direction to face. He chose to face her. Brave.

‘We’ve had this conversation before,’ he managed to say, failing however to keep his voice steady. ‘I _want_ to forgive you, because I _love_ you, but you need to let me be angry with you first! What you’re doing is not fair. You remove yourself from the fight and all that’s left for me to feel is pure longing. I can’t be angry at you anymore, I’m too busy missing you and wondering if and when I’ll manage to get through to you. It’s exhausting, I need…’ He took a deep breath. ‘If I could jump straight to the forgiveness stage I would. I swear. But I can’t, the things you… You… hated me, Brienne.’

His voice broke then, and his legs failed him too. He let himself fall heavily on the green sofa, openly crying because one of them had to. He raised his head to look at her and the unadulterated pain in his eyes shattered her.

‘I was falling in love already, and you hated me so much you wrote an entire book to exorcise that loathing. The woman I loved – love – hating me… Perhaps I do have a type,’ he laughed, bitter, voice worn out and out of tune.

The last six words pierced like an arrow. It was also a test, she knew. She could use his words as an excuse to bolt, again, and perhaps if she did so they would be over, irremediably. (She had trouble believing there was hope still, as it was.)

Or she could move past those last words and take in all the ones that preceded them and accept that _that_ was the damage she needed to fix. A lifetime of building armour for herself, stronger every year by necessity and not choice, wondering sometimes if a few words of apology from her tormenters might lighten the weight a bit – and never finding out, of course. (That wasn’t true, Jaime had apologised, Jaime had lightened the weight.) And now she would let the man she loved suffer because of words from years ago? If she did so, she would lose all right to speak of honour for the rest of her days.

She walked to him, a couple of strides were enough, and knelt by his side, taking both hands, the flesh and the synthetic one, in hers. She kept her gaze on them, afraid the words would remain stuck if she met his gaze.

‘Don’t you see, my love? I was falling too. I don’t know when the sight of you stopped bringing pure annoyance and became a sort of… embarrassing fluster instead. Perhaps when you accused me of looking at you, that day when I was signing books. Well, I’d been looking for weeks. Or when I took you up on that offer of sparring and you were so graceful I thought “Gods, he’s beautiful”.’

‘Ha!’ he tried to mock, but it came out weak. ‘I knew I was the reason you blushed and not the exercise.’

‘It was a bit of both.’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’

‘Back then I was telling myself a lot of things that weren’t true,’ she admitted in a whisper, finally meeting his eyes.

‘Like what?’ he asked, a hint of desperation tainting a sea of green, and it was clear he wasn’t just fishing for a story that would paint him in a good light, he _needed_ to hear something positive. Anything. Alright then, she had plenty to say.

‘Like I didn’t fancy you.’

‘Could’ve told you that one.’

‘Shut up. Like, like you weren’t funny when I kept thinking about your jokes. Now I’m not saying the _jokes_ were funny, you still have the worst sense of humour, but you…you’re funny. You make me laugh.’

‘Good to know.’

‘Don’t mock, I’m trying to say nice things.’

‘I’m not mocking, I’m serious. It’s good to know. For the record, you make me laugh too.’

‘Hmm.’

‘New rule: you can’t doubt anything I say if it’s a compliment.’

‘Do I get a vote on that rule?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘But do I get a rule of my own?’

‘Go for it.’

‘It’s more of a request.’

‘Okay…’

‘Don’t read it. Please,’ she begged, and she was in the right position for it, still kneeling in front of him in supplication.

He looked at where their hands were still joined, ran his thumb over her palm.

‘Too late, wench,’ he said, and it didn’t sound as regretful as she thought it would. In fact, it sounded a bit cold.

‘How much did you…?’

‘A quarter? A third? Jeremy Lance is a bastard, alright.’

‘He’s not you,’ she pleaded. ‘He was never you. I was wrong.’

‘Not about everything. Not about my arrogance, my pride, my vanity. Not about me and…’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said, without thinking.

She rose up and sat next to him on the sofa, dropping his hands to cup his cheek gently and make him look at her.

‘It’s not. Jaime, it’s not. You’re right. You have a right to be angry and I can’t take that away from you. You can say everything you’re angry about and I’ll apologise for it all.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t want…contrition, I just…’

‘You want to fight. I don’t, but I get it. Let’s fight.’

He chuckled, covered the hand on his cheek with his own.

‘We will. But not now.’

‘When?’ she asked, confused.

‘After this.’

He removed her hand from his cheek, depositing it gently in her lap, then he leaned in and kissed her. It was gentle for a second, not tentative but cautious. He was afraid she’d bolt. She did not, but she didn’t respond either. She was too stunned, too shocked that they were really kissing, when she thought she’d forsaken that possibility, that privilege.

He pulled back, misunderstanding what was happening inside her head, her heart.

‘Brienne, I’m sorry, I thought…’

She silenced him by grabbing his face and kissing him again, too intense, too determined for him to doubt her feelings on the matter anymore.

Never mind that it was not the right time, that they still had to work through everything. Never mind that she turned up expecting to have the very last conversation she’d ever have with him.

His arms went around her automatically, his prosthetic hand awkward against the small of her back. It had been ages since he’d kept it for such activities; she always made a point to show him he didn’t need it, that the stump was no anomaly. But she was not going to touch on the subject now lest she ended the moment before its time.

The pressure of their lips together was too strong, the kiss too hard, but they didn’t care. When it was necessary to breathe, they broke apart, and he wasted no time before moving on top of her, coaxing her to lie down, right arm around her to support her. She breathed heavily, chest heaving and there was a split second when he lingered on top of her, chests not quite touching yet, and she had the option to say no, get up and leave.

Instead she pulled back a bit and removed her shirt, tossing it behind her in an artless move and he groaned.

He kissed down her neck, licked at her collarbone, nuzzled her breasts for a minute before sucking a nipple into his mouth through the fabric of her bra. Even with the barrier between her skin and his tongue, the sensation was overwhelming, sending waves of pleasure through every nerve ending, all her way to her core.

Gods, she had missed this, mourned for it, believing she would never feel him again. But there he was, solid and warm as ever. His left hand still on her other breast, teasing, he kissed his way down, down…

Frustrated, she reached behind to unclasp her bra and toss it as unceremoniously as her shirt, then pulling at his. She was met with resistance and a groan, as he was otherwise occupied, but he rose to his knees and undressed in a heartbeat, like his clothes were Band-Aids to be ripped. Her skirt, tights and plain knickers were next. He chuckled at the sight of them, and she blushed.

‘Well, at least I know you didn’t come here with an evil plan to seduce me.’

‘I think you’re doing the seducing,’ she breathed, as his hands and mouth returned to her skin. She moaned, too aroused to feign detachment.

‘And is it working?’

‘Bastard.’

He blinked at the word, paused for a second and she was already racking her brain to figure out what she said or done but he swallowed her thoughts with a kiss and his good hand trailed downwards, finding warmth and wetness – of course, she’d been aroused since she laid eyes on him – and slipped a finger inside her, and she forgot everything.

He was relentless, kissing and biting, first her lips, then her neck again, his right arm back around her while he added another finger to her centre, then another. She gasped, bucked towards him, artless, wanting more, _more._

‘Shh,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. I’ve got you,’ and he kissed her again, the thrusts of his fingers slow, _too slow, dammit,_ but steady and strong, forcing her to focus on the intensity of the moment.

_Look at me._

She couldn’t stop looking if she tried. At his flushed cheeks and shiny eyes, at the expanse of his chest, at the obscene and oh so arousing sight of his hand going in and out of her. It was too much and not enough, then his thumb finally deigned find her clit and it was simply too much this time and – oh, Jaime.

He looked down at her, smug and so tender it hurt. He blew away the strands of hair that fell before his face. Ridiculous man. His fingers were still inside, prolonging the aftershocks, making sure not a single drop of pleasure went to waste. Brienne felt like a mess of liquid, tired, satisfied limbs.

Then, the mood shifted. Jaime pulled his hand away, and moved to sit back on his heels, away from her. His erect cock was mocking her, daring her to reach out and touch and gods, did she want to, and she would have if Jaime himself suddenly didn’t look miles away, searching inside himself for something he could not find. It was an almost blank look, yet Brienne had learned to recognise it for what it was.

She sat up, resisting the urge to cover her chest, and, once she was kneeling on the couch next to him, touched his cheek and gently as she could, a touch that said ‘I’m here to care for you, not own you.’

‘What’s wrong?’

He shrugged. ‘Just trying to catch my breath, is all.’

‘Alright.’ She was treading waters carefully. Something was wrong here. She tried to deflect the tension. ‘I’m the one who just came really hard here, I should be the one catching my breath.’

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Where was the smug look from a minute earlier? It was like he’d remembered something terrible, and the moment had passed. But what?

‘Jaime, did I do something wrong? Say something wrong?’

He leaned towards her to peck her on the lips, soft and firm like all the “Hey darling, I’m home” kissed they shared over the years and it was more heart-wrenching than feeling his skin against hers.

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

She frowned, eyes narrowing in confusion and panic.

“Should we? I mean…”

He looked down at his now half-hard cock and sighed.

‘I don’t think…’

‘Oh no,’ she interrupted, horrified he’d misunderstood and assumed she meant to have sex with him in spite of his clear distress. ‘I meant…do you want me to leave now?’

‘I…’ He shook his head and she felt it against the hand that was still on his cheek.

‘Okay.’ She felt defeated, unable to reach him, _her Jaime_, because she’d let him down once and we wouldn’t let her in anymore. She got off the couch, naked and cold, scanning the room to find her discarded clothes when a warm hand closed around her wrist.

‘Don’t go. We haven’t even talked about whatever you came here to talk about.’

She turned towards him. He was beautiful, half-leaning back on the couch in all his naked glory, perfect face and sad eyes and all. She wanted to laugh and cry at the absurdity of it all.

‘We should get dressed. We’ll catch a cold. Unless you want to have that talk naked.’

He laughed, a broken sound.

‘Probably not.’

They went to pick up their clothes, stopping to throw their shirts at each other (“Catch!”) when they realised they picked up the wrong one and in other circumstances it would have been funny and domestic.

Then Jaime made coffee and Brienne explained all about the memory stick debacle, taking a deep breath before revealing that she certain she’d lost it at her place. He started at her and asked how she could be so sure and she blushed all over reminding him of the ugly robe with the hole in the pocket.

‘Oh, so it’s my fault because I distracted you with sex while you were writing about me?’

The irony in his voice was quite unnerving. She sighed. ‘No, you aggravating...’

‘Relax, I’m joking. But you’re basically saying whoever leaked the bloody thing got the manuscript from my place?’

‘Possibly. Probably. It would explain why there are no signs of hacking on my computer.’

‘And for some reason you don’t suspect the actual owner of the place where you lost it?’

She blinked and he laughed. ‘You haven’t even considered it, have you?’

‘Consider what? That you’d leak it then act upset about it? You’re many things Jaime but manipulative isn’t one of them. At least not with me.’

‘Never with you,’ he breathed, looking oddly relieved. As though he was surprised she’d immediately rule him out even when any involvement on his part wouldn’t make any sense.

She took a deep breath. ‘So I guess what I’m asking is… Can you think of anyone who could have stolen it?’

Jaime ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

‘I can think of someone.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne fight...sort of.  
Meanwhile, Jaime has interesting visitors, and decides to finally confront the person who may or may not have the memory stick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Another late update, but another long-ish chapter? I hope you like it. I feel like this fic is really slow when it comes to getting our two heroes to stop being morons, but it's getting there. In the meantime, enjoy some shenanigans!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to everyone who reads, bookmarks, comments and leaves kudos! Those AO3 emails keep me writing even when I'm sick and exhausted, because I know someone read this today and might be hoping for more. So thank you so, so much, and I hope you're all having a nice holiday season! <3

They didn't see each other for days after the fiasco of their so-called reunion that wasn't even one. He couldn't stop thinking about what an idiot he'd been, pouncing on her like that when she'd come to him to _talk_. Of course it wasn't going to help matters.

And that word. She didn't mean anything by it but he was too raw not to hear it like the accusation it would have been in anyone else's mouth.

Bastard.

_Bastard._

You're a bastard, Jeremy Lance.

You fathered bastards, Jaime Lannister.

He'd tuned out the word for a few blessed minutes because she was naked and willing under him, but after he'd brought her off the echo of it came back, bouncing all around him, ringing in his ear, and he... Well, he supposed he panicked, too far gone to even explain what happened, too embarrassed that a single word, spoken in jest, could have such a devastating effect.

Bastards. His children.

One morning he realised he wanted to see them.

*

Meanwhile, the fight carried on for days. He should have been pleased, and he _was,_ a little. A proper fight, like he'd asked for...

But oh, what a fight indeed.

A text message fight.

In truth, it was the most bizarre series of interactions he ever had with anyone, but it was Brienne and that made it a little better. It wasn't the weirdest situation they'd ever found themselves in, though he wondered what it said about them.

*

_Brienne: I'm sorry about yesterday._

_Jaime: What do you have to be sorry about._

_Brienne, obviously I did something to upset you._

_Jaime: It's fine._

_Brienne: I wish you'd tell me._

_Jaime: i wish you'd told me you'd written that book_

_Brienne: Is this how it's going to be?_

_Jaime: aren't i allowed a bit of spite?_

_Brienne: If it makes you feel better about whatever I did that upset you that you won't tell me about, then fine._

_*_

_Brienne: You really won't tell me?_

_Jaime: no, it's stupid_

_Brienne: It can't be stupid._

_Brienne: You are not stupid._

_Jaime: Jury's still out on that one._

*

_Jaime: you know what I thought about last night?_

_Brienne: Tell me._

_Jaime: about how it would have been like if you'd told me about the book. you know, back then, at first._

_Brienne: Okay..._

_Brienne: And?_

_Jaime: picture it, it was the beginning of our relationship, we were still tiptoeing around each other but we were comfortable enough._

_Jaime: Remember that night, when I asked you whether you were Duncan, because of Hunt and Connington and all that mess, and I said "be honest, I won't judge" and you were._

_Jaime: Honest. you told me the truth, just not the whole truth_

_Brienne: And you laughed._

_Jaime: I thought it was brilliant_

_Brienne: You said you were proud of me._

_Jaime: I was, in a weird way._

_Brienne: So basically you're implying that you were in such a great mood that I could have told you about the other thing?_

_Jaime: you could have tried_

_Brienne: It could have ruined everything._

_Jaime: Like it ruined everything when I told you about my secrets?_

_Brienne: It's different. None of those things could have hurt me personally._

_Jaime: I was mean to you when we met. I think I could have understood why you did it, back then. Whereas now I just fail to understand why you never told me._

_Jaime: or why you finished the damn thing._

_Jaime: that's the bit that hurts I suppose, you keeping secrets like you think you can't trust me._

*

_Jaime: Brienne?_

*

_Brienne: You never told me you kept your old flat._

*

_Jaime: I forgot._

_Brienne: Sure._

_Jaime: I never went there if that's what you're worried about._

_Brienne: I'm implying something here._

_Jaime: ooh, passive aggressive communication, gotta love it_

_Brienne: why didn't you tell me?_

_Jaime: I wasn't on solid ground. I figured...i might need to go back at some point. If you and me didn't work out, if i failed to be this new man._

_Brienne: You didn't fail._

_Jaime: but you and me didn't work out_

_Brienne: jury's still out on that one_

*

** _Hollow and Conniving_ ** ** chapter 2, written by Duncan Tall:**

_How funny, the way mediocre people love to look down on those at the bottom of the barrel to feel slightly better about themselves. That "slightly", it would seem, is what gets them through the days, months and years of their dull existences. _

_Hollow and Conniving were of that fold. Plain, only moderately intelligent, and devoid of the kind of noble sensibilities that would allow them to find contentment in the simple, pure pleasures on this world. No, Hollow and Conniving’s amusement of choice was cruelty. _

_And what better way to have fun than to let the ugliest lady on the posh people single's market know, over and over, that even men with fewer prospects than most were still much too good for her?_

_So a little game they designed, one to ensure the repugnant thing that had the audacity to call itself a woman would know, once and for all and in front of witnesses, how undesirable she was._

_Entertainment for the ages._

*

The last thing Jaime expected when he left his flat to visit his old gym, so bored he wanted to see if there was still life in the old neighbourhood, was to find himself ambushed by Hyle Hunt and Ronnet Connington.

'Lannister,' drawled Connington with an unbearable smirk. Next to him stood Hunt, stance defiant but hands in his pockets and something odd about him. They had been waiting for him round the corner that led to the gym and the small grocery shop Jaime used to visit when he lived here.

Jaime raised his eyebrows and did his best imitation of his old self, or as he was keen to refer to him as these days, 'Jeremy'.

'What do you want?'

'Rumour has it,' enunciated Connington in a slur that left Jaime wondering if he was drunk this early in the morning, 'you wrote those damn books.'

'Rumour has it indeed. Rumours are often wrong,' said Jaime with a dismissive wave of this prosthetic hand. He could feel the other two's gaze on it, watching it move and thinking it looked unnatural, or perhaps too natural. Jaime didn't care anymore.

'Well, if the rumours are right, then you ruined our lives, arsehole!'

'Did I? You seem to be doing just fine to me, gentlemen. Fine clothes, decent jobs from what I hear, and oh, a sports car judging by those keys you're playing with, Hunt. So, what is it you want from me?'

Connington grumbled.

'More money?' asked Jaime, ironic.

'No, not that,' said Hunt.

'Then what?'

'An apology.'

'For the damage done to your little reputations? Oh come on, they were in pieces already. Everyone always thought you were a double act of utter twats, they were just too nice or too indifferent to say it to your faces.'

‘And besides,’ he added, ‘and I’m saying this for the very last time : I did not write the damn books!'

'Who did then?' growled Connington, clearly pissed his genius plan wasn't unfolding the way he’d hoped.

'Never mind, Red,’ mumbled Hunt. ‘Let's go, you know the bastard's not going to give us anything.'

A hand on Connington’s back, he pushed his drunk friend away from Jaime, but his brown eyes were fixed on Jaime’s perplexed ones.

'Hope the books paid well, Lannister,’ mocked Hunt, even though there was something in his eyes that Jaime couldn't quite place. Almost as if he was...acting? And he was terrible at it. But what role was he trying to play?

'Why do you care about my bank account now?' asked Jaime.

'Well that therapist you have to be paying must be expensive. I mean, I hope you're seeing one. Between the hand, the shameful dalliances, the need to write unflattering self-inserts...'

'And ending up with Tarth,’ laughed Connington.

'That too,' said Hunt, looking down at the pavement. 'Poor you. Or poor her. Maybe that's what drove you mad, or perhaps you were mad already. Had to be, to put up with her for so long. Now did you leave her, or did she leave you?'

'She must have left him when the book leaked,’ slurred Connington. ‘Poor thing. He was basically admitting to tricking her, plus the other things...'

Slam!

The prosthetic had broken through the air and landed on Connington's face. On his nose, specifically.

'You're crazy!' shouted Connington from the ground where he’d fallen, one hand clutching his nose. Blood was slipping through his spread-out fingers.

'Can you get up, red?' asked Hyle, sounding concerned and uninterested at once. What kind of drug was he on, to be acting like that? It was clear Connington was drunk off his arse and had dragged Hunt all the way to Jaime, but that didn't explain Hunt's behaviour.

Great, as if he needed to make things any harder for himself, Jaime thought. If the two idiots decided to press charges...

Connington scrambled up to his feet, refusing Hunt's lazily drawn out hand. 'I'm fine, I'm fine! You shouldn't have done that, Lannister.'

Jaime flashed his teeth. It was technically a smile, no-one could tell otherwise, but anyone who had seen it knew it as the threat of a lion about to pounce on his prey.

'How about we make a deal, Cunt Number One and Cunt Number Two? You don't tell anyone about the way my prosthetic just…malfunctioned, and I won't tell anyone you just harassed and threatened me on the street. Imagine if I got a restraining order against you, it would make navigating Olenna's garden parties rather difficult, wouldn't you agree?'

'Fine,' conceded Connington, who was trying to fix his hair and assess the damage done to his nose. Didn't look broken. What a shame.

'You haven't seen the last of us!'

'Come on Ronnet, let's go,' said Hunt, annoyed and impatient and sounding like a guy who really needed some peace and quiet.

Jaime could almost feel sorry for him. He knew the feeling.

*

_Jaime: Guess who paid me a visit today._

_Brienne: Tyrion? Bronn?_

_Jaime: Ha! I wish_

_Brienne: ...who?_

_Jaime: Hunt and Connington_

_Brienne: WHAT?!_

_Jaime: thought I was good old Duncan, so they wanted, and I quote "an apology"_

_Brienne: Whatever for?_

_Jaime: ruining their lives apparently_

_Brienne: The nerves on those two._

_Jaime: Enough material for a sequel, don’t you think? Hollow and Conniving Return._

_Brienne: Don't..._

_Jaime: I smacked Connington in the face._

_Brienne: You what?_

_Jaime: with my right hand_

_Brienne: Ouch._

_Jaime: Ouch for him and not for me at least. Perks of being a cripple._

_Jaime: *thumbs-up emoji*_

_Brienne: *eyeroll emoji*_

_Jaime: that's all the reaction I'm going to get?_

_Jaime: wench?_

*

_Brienne: heart emoji_

_Jaime: blushing emoji_

*

_Jaime: fighting is fun but I kinda miss you_

_Brienne: Kinda?_

_Jaime: A lot. All the time. Okay?_

_Brienne: Me too._

_Brienne: You could come over._

_Jaime: Can't this afternoon_

_Brienne: More people to smack?_

_Jaime: maybe, depending on how it goes_

_Jaime: wish me luck as I ride into battle_

_Brienne: You are so dramatic._

*

Cersei lived in the posh suburb around King's Landing. Massive pool, big garden, three floors, her house was practically a mansion. Nearby was the super expensive and elitist private school the children attended. Jaime remembered his private lessons with his father, when Tywin had decided dyslexia was simply not a condition his son was allowed to have. He and wondered whether the septons and septas from the children's private schools would be better or worse at dealing with that kind of thing. Probably worse, given how Joffrey was turning out to be. Then again, he might have a more informed idea if he'd been allowed in the children's lives in any capacity other than "reckless, silly Uncle Jaime who is nice but to whom you shouldn't listen to".

He parked the car a couple of streets away. He didn't want all the neighbours to run to the window to see who was driving past. He was wearing slacks and a freshly ironed shirt, with a leather jacket. A mix of “dependable” and “fun”, he hoped, unless it just made him look like a middle-aged tosser. It was bad enough he didn't know what to say to the children whenever he saw them, and that was rare enough, now apparently he needed to overthink his outfits and fail miserably at looking cool.

_Oh, shut up_, he chastised himself. _At least your hair always looks great_.

The sun reverberated on the clear-coloured facades of the creepily-perfect street. Cersei's house was the biggest and therefore stood at the end of the street, perched atop a slight mound. A fancy cul-de-sac. Getting there felt like a long, aggravating walk of shame but less so than sneaking out in the middle of the night and walking half-crouched across backyards and the fields behind lest anyone saw him. He remembered that well enough. He probably always would.

He avoided the main entrance gate and found the small wooden gate at the back of the garden. The one only staff and family were allowed to use. Well, family… No-one ever really had to use it except Jaime. Again, the sneaking out situation.

There was no-one near the pool, but he knew where the secret hiding places were. Not because he was ever allowed to play with the children, even though he seized the opportunity more than once at big family gatherings when no-one cared what he was doing and Cersei couldn't tell him off. No, he knew those places from stumbling outside after dark with his brother, during one of those interminable dinners, in fact, and finding refuge in Myrcella and Tommen's tree house, preferring each other's company – and that of vodka, of course – to everyone else's.

Climbing the ladder to the tree house was no easy task with a prosthetic hand, but he'd seen worse. No-one inside, however, but a bunch of colourful pillows and quilts, discarded toys (a doll and a robot) and leftover papers from snack bars the kids had left rotting in there. He smiled in spite of himself. They were growing up, and they had a life. A nice life.

'Uncle Jaime?'

Myrcella's voice startled him and he almost tripped on the ladder bars. Thankfully he didn't, and managed to get down as gracefully as possible. Or so he hoped.

'What are you doing here, Uncle Jaime?' asked Myrcella, seemingly stuck between a happy smile and a wary look; it made for a contradictory expression that would be funny if it didn't remind him of his sister so much. Torn between affection and distrust for him. Dependable but stupid Jaime, strong but spineless Jaime.

'I thought I'd pop by and see you and your brothers.'

'Oh.'

He laughed, nervous. 'Is it such a bad surprise?'

'No!' she exclaimed, her eyes looking like they were going to pop out of her head and for a split second his brain decided her expression reminded him of Brienne. Now that was something he refused to ever think about, how different things would be if he'd had children with Brienne. Normal children from a normal relationship when he didn't have to translate "Uncle" into "Father" inside his head, while making sure the truth was never spoken.

Now he was thinking those things anyway, because under this light, and with that innocent yet defiant look on her face, Myrcella might almost look like she could be Brienne's.

'Tommen is playing video games,' said Myrcella. 'And Joff's not here, he's doing an internship with Grandfather, you know?'

'Is he now? And how's that going?'

'Terribly, according to Joff,' said Myrcella with an eyeroll that indicated she didn't have much sympathy for her brother’s alleged suffering. 'Well, we all know how Grandfather is, but I think Joff is exaggerating. I'm pretty sure he's not spending that much time with Grandfather anyway."

"Tywin does not have the patience.'

'Exactly. So I think Joff is just bored.'

'And you brother hates that.'

'All Lannisters hates that. We are made for action, that's what Mama always says.'

'Well if Mama says it then it must be true,' sing-songed Jaime. Myrcella stifled a giggle and Jaime felt something in him light up at the prospect of making her laugh. It was a beautiful, melodic sound, his daughter's laugh.

'Should we go inside and see Mama and Tommen?'

'Oh, Cersei's here?'

Myrcella blinked. 'Well, yes. She's been working from home.' She started walking towards the house. The easiest way to get inside from this point in the garden was through the living room’s glass doors. Walking closer, Jaime could see a slim figure sitting at an equally slim desk, a string-like white thing that looked like it was designed for architecture magazines, and not to actually sit down in front of it and work. But apparently, Cersei managed. Long blond hair flowed down her back, some of it carefully braided, and her back was as straight as ever. She picked papers and moved them around carefully, with elegant, manicured hands. The picture of perfection, even from afar.

And quite possibly the person who betrayed him. Again.

'Just a minute Myrcella,' he called, low enough that Cersei wouldn't hear. Myrcella turned back.

'What is it, Uncle Jaime?'

'I just... Before we go inside and see your mother, I just wanted a minute.'

‘To do what?'

'Just... to talk to you! Haven't seen you in ages! How have you been?'

Oh boy, he thought, he was being ridiculous, flapping his hands about and laughing nervously and all. What an idiot.

'Well,’ said Myrcella. ‘I mean, as well as can be when Mama took my phone and forbade me to go online. She's lucky I don't have school assignments that require research.'

'Now, why would she do that?'

'You know why, because of that stupid book... Mama and Papa and even Uncle Tyrion are afraid we're going to be traumatised or something if we read what's in it. They say it's nasty stuff about our family. But I hear nasty stuff about us all the time, and besides, if it's just a story, whoever wrote it made it all up, didn't they? It's what they _think_ they know about us, but it isn't actually true.'

'Now you're absolutely right sweetie, it's just a bunch of nonsense. But your mum is trying to protect you, that's all.'

Myrcella looked at him for a while, assessing whether he was being truthful, perhaps. Then she raised her eyebrows, remembering something.

'Where were you, Uncle Jaime? I knew there was something weird about you being here. I heard Mama tell Papa on the phone that you'd disappeared!'

Jaime laughed. 'I didn't disappear, sweetie, I went on a holiday.'

'Why did you need to go on holiday for?'

'Er... Do I need a reason?'

'You never take holiday time. You're always working.'

'That...used to be true, I suppose. Nowadays, not so much. Anyway, I needed a break I suppose.'

'Oh.'

She bit her lip while assessing him again.

‘Is this because of your breakup with Brienne?’

‘Ah. I suppose Mama talked about that on the phone too?’

‘No, she just told us. Said it was about time.’

Jaime cringed. 

‘Yeah and what does she know?’

Now angry enough to find the energy and courage to face his sister, he opened the glass door and barged into the living room, a nervous Myrcella on his footsteps.

‘Cersei!’ he tonned.

He saw Cersei jump, but it was imperceptible. More like a slight tremor. To anyone else, she would have seemed completely unsurprised by the intrusion, prepared almost, like a chess Queen ten moves ahead of everyone else.

When she turned around, her most affectionate smile was plastered on her face.

‘Jaime! What a surprise, brother. I would say ‘Come on in’ but you’ve already made quite the entrance.’

His jaw felt tense. 'Yes, I did always try to match your flair for the dramatic without ever quite getting there.'

She smirked. 'You've had your moments.' Then, turning to Myrcella, who was standing behind Jaime like he was a shield, 'Why don't you go find your brother, sweetling? Uncle Jaime and I need to talk. You can bring Tommen down to say hello later.'

Myrcella nodded and tiptoed out of the room, careful to disturb it as little as possible. It unnerved Jaime, that his daughter should be somewhat terrified of her mother, even though he suspected Robert's temper also had a part to play in the children's various issues: Joffrey's unstability, Myrcella's need to appear perfect at all times, and Tommen's anxiety.

Cersei laughed but it was too clear to be genuine.

'What are you thinking about Jaime? You look like a cloud has just landed right above you.'

He wanted to say something very angry but he managed a neutral 'We need to talk, Cersei.' Best not to antagonise her so soon.

But then, the room shifted. It seemed to him only a second between the moment she left her seat and the moment she was right in front of him, her hands in his. She always moved with such ease and grace, yet her eagerness to close the distance between them, a distance that was more than physical and much older than their current situation, made him feel like a prey.

He took a step back. Cersei took a short, angry breath.

For years you've accused me of not being affectionate enough,’ she snapped, ‘and now you recoil at my touch? You never knew what you wanted.'

'No, that was you,' he hissed. 'I wanted...'

_I wanted you. _Well, it had been very true at the time, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words anymore. Just thinking them didn’t feel right, like they were some other Jaime’s reality and not his. He tasted bile in his mouth.

Cersei noticed the conflict in his eyes and smirked to hide the glint of hurt in her eyes.

'See, you still don't know. Why are you even here?'

'Well, let's see. Your phone call, your talking to the papers about me, your utter joy in the face of my break-up with Brienne - oh yes, I know about that too.’

She shook her hear in fury. 'Fucking Robert.'

'Why would you even rejoice about it?' asked Jaime

Dropping his voice, he said, as gently as he could because try as he might to hate her, she was his sister, and he had always been too caring for his own good. 'You know it's over between us, it has been for years.'

'Because of _her_,' Cersei spat.

'No,' he said, a hint of sadness when he thought of all the time they wasted. 'Because of us. Because it was never meant to last and we shouldn't have let it. You never loved me as much as you said you did. I was never enough. And I let my life revolve around you, which was equally wrong, I suppose.'

‘Oh, so your perfect new life doesn't revolve around _her_, is that what you're saying? You were always obsessive. And you couldn't have me anymore so you projected that devotion onto a woman you never even loved! How pathetic is that?'

'How dare you assume that just because I don't want you anymore it somehow means I don't love Brienne! I do love her, with all my heart.'

'Not what you wrote,' she mumbled.

'What did you say?'

'Never mind. But perhaps this dreadful ordeal will finally put you back in your place. You were unfair to me. It wasn't my fault you had such high expectations and now your arrogance is coming back to kick you in the arse!'

'Assuming you wouldn't sleep around was not having high expectations, Cersei!’ It was getting harder to keep his voice down but he had to, he couldn’t risk the children hearing a word of this. ‘I'm sorry I held you to such high standards just because I thought highly of you. How insulting that must have been!'

He spat the words out, feeling familiar venom take over his bloodstream. A twisted, toxic pang of excitement, of anticipation, even, rose in him. _This_ was easy. This, he could navigate. Fighting with Cersei. He'd done it his entire life. And she would never shy away from a fight, no. She would create drama after drama to make sure he had to stay invested in their relationship. Love and hate entwined like twins in the womb. They would hurl insults at each other for a solid hour then he would grab her hair or she would grab his and they would kiss and fall into bed, angry, demanding, reaffirming.

He shivered.

No. No, no, no, no, no. _That's not what I want. Not anymore. _

'Look,' he made himself say. 'I came here to talk about something specific, so let's not start, okay?'

Cersei assessed him like Myrcella had done a bit earlier. She must have seen resolve he didn’t know he felt, because two seconds later, she shrugged.

'Fine. What is it?'

'That book, the one that was leaked online...'

'Yes?' she asked with an impatient wave of her hand.

'You think I wrote it.'

'I _know_ you wrote it,' she hissed.

'So you keep saying. But _how_ would you know? How would you know for sure?'

'So you're admitting it!'

'Answer the question.'

'Jaime...'

'You know because you found it, I assume? Because _you _leaked it, Cersei.'

'I...' She looked away.

Oh no. He felt dizzy.

'Oh Gods, it's true, isn't it? I didn't want to believe it. How could you do this, Cersei? _Why_ would you do this? The rumour mill, the tabloids... The children, for gods' sake, did you not realise what would happen?'

Cersei took a step forward and shook him. She looked at a loss for words and actions, just like he did. This wasn't like her.

'Stop, Jaime. Stop. It wasn't me!'

He blinked. 'Do you really expect me to believe that?'

Her eyes were glistening with tears, angry tears and desperate tears. 'Yes. Or perhaps not, but it's the truth. I was at your flat with the children, you were telling them stupid stories and I was bored! Then I saw that flash drive on the floor near your desk chair. I could have put it back but I was curious, I thought it would be company reports, something I could use to look better than you and Tyrion at the next company board meeting – I don’t know! So I plugged it in, and what did I discover? My brother was Duncan Tall, and not the brother everyone thought. I panicked and pocketed the drive so I could go through it again at home. Which I did. But once I realised what you'd been writing about, I hid it of course! I was biding my time, I was going to confront you about it.'

'And do what? Blackmail me so I'd return to you?'

She waved, dismissive. 'Maybe. Who cares? The point is, I was keeping your secret. And when it turned up online, I checked the safe and it was...it was gone.'

Jaime blinked. 'The safe? What safe?'

Cersei had turned away from him, planning her next move across the chess board as she realised she had made a tactical mistake. Jaime knew there was no safe in her house, nor at her office.

'Cersei... Please tell me you don't mean the safe at Casterly Rock.'

'It was the safest place I could think of.'

'And who had the code to that safe? Who did you have to ask?'

'I couldn't risk Robert finding it!'

'Who did you ask to keep the flash drive safe?'

She looked up at him with eyes full of years, every bit the little girl he’d wanted to spend his life protecting.

She whispered. 'Father...'

*

** _Valonqar_ ** **, page 377:**

_So that was what it felt like to do something right, to have a good deed lighten the weight of the load of guilt that rotted in your chest. Jeremy Lance breathed in the feeling, he could taste it, even. The taste of a perfect night. A clear, star-lit sky and soft air too kind for the likes of him._

_Yet he was here, and he was alive, and he had saved an innocent. Just because Briony would never be loved the way she dreamed of did not mean she could not be respected and appreciated. And she would have his friendship, always. He had come to care for the big stubborn woman. She made him feel...different. The hollowness inside him had been filled by something that had always been there but he had kept so deeply hidden it might as well have disappeared. Now all those parts of him had returned at full force, stretching the space inside of him, demanding to be acknowledged, a man's true nature revealing itself, refusing to be denied any longer. He felt solid again. He felt like a new person. _

_He could not sleep, while next to him, Briony was a dead weight on the ground. Heavy, solid, tangible and alive, which was more than they could both hope for a mere hours before. They had made it, and they had recovered the secret that would clear Jeremy's name. To say he owed her a debt of gratitude would be a massive understatement. She snorted and grunted in her sleep and he felt something close to endearment. He supposed he was also discovering what it felt like to have a friend. An underrated form of love._

_They would part ways soon, of course, and the Seven only knew if he would ever see her again. But she would be in his thoughts and in his heart always. He had work to do fixing the rest of his life, now. Perhaps his age-old craving for a sweet reconciliation with his family would be on the horizon at last – well, perhaps not sweet, for it was not the Lance way, but honest. A promise of a softer future. Thomas would forgive him, and Clarice would understand why he was the way he was. He would get to know her children, and they would be a family – perhaps, perhaps._

_What a lucky bastard that would make me, he thought. But I got through this, I'm here, alive on this beautiful night even though I don't deserve… No, he thought. I must deserve this, since the Gods are letting me have it._

_I will not let them down._

_He rose and planted a kiss on Briony's forehead. She twisted but did not rise. Good. He was terrible at goodbyes. Leaving her there, with a fond smile on his face, he walked into the darkness, knowing that when he got through, there would be sunlight._

*

'Not what you wrote,' Cersei had said.

Of course. Of course Brienne had ended her fucking book on a bittersweet note and made him leave her in the middle of the night. That's what she always assumed he'd do, after all.

He took deep breaths. It would not do to get enraged again, just as they were finally getting five per cent better at communicating.

A better ending for his character, she'd said. What sort of stupid bullshit was that? Only a stubborn wench who was secretly a sucker for tragic endings would call that a good conclusion. How dare she believe she'd done him – them – justice with it?

Jaime reasoned he'd better go to sleep and forget about the whole day; the book, Hyle and Connington, Cersei, sweet Myrcella, all of it.

And then he did the opposite and picked up his phone.

*

_Jaime: the fuck was that ending?_

_Jaime: sorry that was rude. I mean I read it and hated it. What the hell were you thinking?_

_Brienne: I told you not to read it!!_

_Jaime: I had to, Cersei said something._

_Brienne: No comment._

_Jaime: Yes, comment! I demand to know why you'd assume I would leave you for her?!_

_Brienne: We weren't even together when I wrote that!!_

_Jaime: Ugh_

_Brienne: I'm sorry. Really._

*

_Jaime: Come over_

_Brienne: It's 2 a.m._

_Jaime: But you're not asleep_

_Brienne: Okay. Why?_

_Jaime: I want to talk. About what I learned today. It's pretty bad._

_Jaime: Also about what happened last time you were here_

_Jaime: Also I may have realised fighting was overrated._

_Brienne: On my way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They. Need. To. Talk.
> 
> Well, they will next time. You'll also get to find out what Brienne's been up to during the days of the neverending text message argument.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> ...sorry about the angst? (Spoiler: they don't stay broken up for long.)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and if you can spare a minute I'd love to read your thoughts :)
> 
> I'm also on tumblr @foreshadowings !


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